


Once Upon A December

by Sam_Haine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bottom Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Steve Rogers, Inspired by Anastasia (1997 & Broadway), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers-centric, M/M, New York City, Orphanage, Orphans, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Smut, Song: Once Upon a December (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway), Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23407405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Haine/pseuds/Sam_Haine
Summary: A great tragedy befalls the Rogers' family, leaving their only son, Steve, an orphan. Steve has no recollection of who he truly is and has no inclination to finding out until he meets the dark and mysterious loner, James Buchanan Barnes who insists that he call him by the name of Bucky.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Joseph Rogers/Sarah Rogers
Comments: 31
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've recently rewatched Anastasia and BOY OH BOY was I inspired. The story goes so deep and I just couldn't help but imagine what it would be like if it were Steve and Bucky. So, this story was born. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter One- Things We Lost In The Fire

"Do ya like em?" 

_A whispered squeal;_ "Like em? I _love_ em!" 

"C'mon, grab as many as you can! Then we can go up to your room and eat em all!" 

The one hastily stuffing the deep pockets of his best trousers is James. He's a servant boy in the Rogers' Mansion, along with his two older brothers Peter and Sergei and their father Dimitri. The other boy, is the only son of the Rogers' family, Steven. He's younger than James but he follows the mischievous boy like a loyal puppy and goes wherever he goes. At the moment, Steve's supposed to be at his mother's side, paying attention to the party they're throwing at the Mansion for all of the town dignitaries. But instead, he's hiding under the dining table with James and a large bowl of black plums between them. 

_James had snagged it off the table when no one was paying attention._

"My pockets aren't big enough!" Little Steve protests, sounding as if he'd been tragically betrayed. But then James swoops in to his rescue, with a tilted smile and a hand on the smaller boy's shoulder. 

"It's okay Stivena. You get as many as you can and I'll get the rest." 

Bucky's variation of Steve's name comes from his Russian heritage. His family had moved from the city of St Petersburg in 1899 because of his father's occupation in manufacturing and industry which is how they'd met the Rogers. It took only a few months before they'd befriended the entire American family and were fully employed for Steve's father, Joseph Rogers, owner of New York's largest manufacturing company; the _Joseph Rogers Brewery._ Joseph Sr., of course, had been Steve's great grandfather. The brewery was the biggest supplier of alcohol and spirits in Brooklyn and the rest of America and even overseas in places like Britain and even Russia. The Rogers' business had provided employment for a majority of the workers in the town for decades and the simple fact had made them the most popular millionaires in New York. 

_At least, that was when the economy was soaring._

As it neared the 1900s, there had been a significant decline in transatlantic trading and the company had seen it's lowest earnings in the first time since it's conception in the early 1800s. The beginning of a great depression, some had rumored. Joseph had been forced to face the very real trouble of closing the company down or retrenching near a hundred workers. Times were tough but everyone seemed to get with the program, as the Rogers had done their best to help their least fortunate employees, which accounted for the majority of them. That's why they were practically Brooklyn royalty. 

Of course, not everyone had expressed the same sentiment. 

There was the opposing Schmidt family who often led protests against Joseph and his family as a result of both families' tumultuous histories. Steve's great grandfather and Rassè Schmidt had established the brewery under a partnership and had run the company for years as close friends. Until the day Joseph Sr had uncovered the truth that Rassè had been secretly siphoning money off of the profits they'd made annually into a personal bank account for purposes of his black market dealings. Cocaine, guns and bodies. Schmidt had been quickly thrown in jail for his crimes, his name no longer a part of the brewery and his family no longer benefiting from the illegally siphoned profits. The animosity had sadly been the only thing that had survived their relationship and often resulted in near violent disputes between both families. 

Oblivious to the Rogers, Schmidt's family and a small group of protesters were charging silently towards their Mansion, torches and pitchforks in hand, Johann Schmidt at the head. 

****

The boys are still under the dining table, having foregone their escape plans to Steve's room as more guests had arrived and sat down around them. 

James snickers softly at the sound of a poor waiter panicking in his Irish accent over the lost bowl of plums. 

_"I- I swear Sir, I put them right here!"_

Steve can hear his father calming the terrified servant, clearly amused. _"It's okay Finnegan, I'm sure it's somewhere In the kitchen. I'll help you look for it."_

Steve claps a tiny fist over his mouth to stifle his hysterical giggles, falling over with the effort. Then his blue eyes grow even bigger and he's ramrod straight again. James frowns curiously at him and asks 'what's wrong' silently. 

"Um..." Steve mutters, digging his hand into his pockets and pulling out a handful of squishy plums. 

James cheeks go red and he has to cover his own mouth to stop from busting out a jolly old laugh. But then Steve blinks at him with watery eyes, plump cheeks and a mournful pout and he stops. He crawls closer to the boy, petting his angel blonde hair gently as Steve continues to gaze sadly at his squished fruit. 

"It's okay Stivena. Don't cry. I've got more. Look!" He quickly takes out all the plums from his pockets and tosses them back into the bowl. He takes the plums that are still whole from Steve and tosses those in as well. 

"We can eat em here." 

Steve sniffs and wipes at his eyes with all the drama of an exhausted toddler. Then he nods slowly, blinking away the tear drops that clung to his long lashes. "Okay Jamie." 

James snorts and kisses Steve's head with a loud smacking sound. "How many times have I told you to call me Bucky?" 

Steve's face screws up at that. "Bucky's not your name." 

"Well, Buchanan is my middle name and even my brothers call me Bucky." James justifies, offering a ripe plum to Steve. 

"Well... what's wrong with James?" The blonde inquires, biting down on his fruit. Dark berry like juice runs down his little hands and soaks into his best suit. The white and blue material is already soaked and stained through with plum juice and pulp. 

James makes a face. "Yuck, I hate it. It's too... _big."_

Steve frowns innocently, rightly confused. 

James gestures with his hands to make him understand better. "Y'know, grown up!" 

Steve's blue eyes roll from side to side in his head. "But you are grown up, _Bucky._ You're eight years old! M'only four." 

"Don't worry Stevie," James grins, "You'll get there soon." 

Steve giggles, chewing idly on his second plum while James- _Bucky,_ shoves three in his mouth. The boys finish the entire bowl by the time the adults are having dinner above them. 

"Hey, when are we gettin' outta here?" Steve whispers, head rested on Bucky's lap. He's a little restless, as all tykes are when they've eaten their tummies full. James grins softly and pets the boy's head. 

"They're gonna finish soon enough Stevie." 

"Mama's gonna kill me when she sees the mess I've made." 

James sighs with a tired but happy smile. "It's okay. I'll tell her it was my idea to steal the plums. She knows how much I love em." 

Steve giggles, his tiny fingers poking idly at James's knee. "She also knows how much trouble I get myself into."

Even for a toddler Steve was a tiny child, but that didn't stop him from doing all the crazy stuff with James whenever they were left unsupervised. He could keep up with the best of them and was never afraid to back down. 

James chuckles, ears perking up as the sounds at the table begin to echo around them. Chairs are pulled back with little noise, the shoes of waiters and waitresses tapping all around as glassware clinks against metal utensils. The polite chatter and laughter eventually leave the room, trickling out into the ballroom where the main party was to be held. 

Bucky quickly wakes Steve, who'd been quietly dozing on himself. 

"Hey, they're gone. C'mon let's go!" 

The blonde toddler quickly shakes himself awake, rubbing at his eyes with purple stained fingers. 

"C'mon Stevie! Wake up!" 

When the boy finally clears the sleepiness out of his eyes, they gather up themselves and begin their great escape from under the dining table. 

_"And just where do you two think you're going?"_

Both boys freeze up instantly at the sound of a familiar voice, stern but not harsh or cold... mostly amused.

The children slowly look up to see none other than Steve's beloved grandmother staring down at them expectantly with hands on her hips. Her blue eyes shine with glee as they get to their feet, staring down at their feet, guilty. Their hands are dirty, stained purple just like their trousers. Steve is drenched in the sticky stains, blonde hair disheveled and his new white shirt is crumpled. James is equally disheveled but his hair is still in its neat fix. 

"S'cuse me Ma'am. It wasn't Steve's fault, it was me. I took the plums and-" 

"Stop." Grandma Aileen says simply, squinting down at the brunette servant boy. He's nervously biting his lip, hands clasped together behind his back. He takes a step forward to block Steve from her onslaught, the little blonde boy peering up at her from behind him. He's never encountered Steve's grandma Aileen before since she's recently come into the Mansion to stay with them. 

"It's not James's fault grandmama. I swear it-" Steve starts but he's stopped in his tracks too as Aileen holds up her hand. She lowers herself to peer beneath the table and hums softly when she sees the bowl. She takes it out, still humming and places it on the dining table. 

"Mother, have you found them?" Joseph inquires as he sweeps into the dining room, glass of champagne in hand. 

Aileen quickly steps in front of the children, concealing them behind the long, flowing skirts of her golden gown. 

"No dear I haven't. I did find the bowl of plums however." 

Joseph looks at it and snorts fondly. "Must be imaginary plums. Those rascals probably got to it before we could set the table." 

Aileen chuckles, gesturing with her hand casually. "Perhaps you should take this back to the kitchen dear." 

Joseph smiles cheekily. "Of course mother." 

As soon as he vacates the dining room, Aileen immediately rounds on them, a mischievous gleam in her aquamarine eyes. 

"Hurry to the bathroom boys. Quick! Before he catches you!" 

Both James and Steve quickly rush after her, following her up a flight of beautifully carpeted stairs and straight into Steve's room. She shuts the door closed and turns to them, both boys halting in their tracks as they go to jump on the bed. 

"That was a close one boys." She says with a grin, rushing to scoop Steve up in a warm hug. 

"I believe that's your bed, the bathroom, is _here."_ She tells him, tickling his belly as she opens the door to the bathroom inside. James quickly follows her inside, keeping his eyes on Steve the whole time. The Rogers were usually nice to him and his brothers, and he only got reprimanded by the kitchen cooks or the security around the Mansion. But he's never met Grandma Aileen before so he's not sure whether to trust her with Steve. 

When he's in the bathroom, he sees that Steve's already in the tub, his plum-stained clothes on the floor. Aileen turns to him, staring expectantly. 

"Well, go on James. Into the tub." 

He frowns, taking off his shirt and trousers and slinking cautiously into the warm water to join Steve. 

"How d'you know my name Ma'am?" He asks, quite careful about it but not impolite. 

Aileen smiles at him, pouring some warm water over his head. She nods in Steve's direction, grinning as the boy plays with his tiny toes in the water, oblivious to their staring. 

"This one talks of nothing else. He says you've just returned after two months from Russia?" 

James smiles and nods, scrubbing all the sticky plum juice off of himself while Aileen washes Steve's hair. 

"I went with my Mama, Ma'am. She was visiting her sister in St Petersburg." 

"No need to call me Ma'am, sweet boy." 

Bucky frowns innocently. "Then what may I call you Ma- uhh..." 

Aileen smiles, finishing up with Steve and then moving to wash James's own unruly hair. 

"Well, it's simple, James. You may call me Grandma." She chuckles, her eyes sparkling just like Steve when he's happy and content. _They have the same eyes,_ James realizes as water comes cascading down his head. After shaking the water out, she brushes the wet strands out of his eyes and squeezes his cheek playfully. 

"And what may I call you, youngster?" 

James doesn't get the chance to answer as Steve crawls in between them and yells, "Bucky!" 

Aileen's eyes widen in exaggerated amazement, wrapping the tiny blonde in a large, fluffy towel. She grabs another towel, doing the same for James. 

"Bucky?" She questions curiously, tousling his long hair. 

"It's my middle name." James says, blushing slightly as they go back to the room to search for clothes. 

"Well, what's wrong with James dear?" 

He shrugs, slipping on his best trousers, shirt and waistcoat. They're dual-toned, white and blue, just like Steve's colour scheme. 

"Says it's too big." Steve intervenes again, squealing as Aileen powders him. 

"Big?" 

James sighs, rolling his eyes at an oblivious Steve. "Grown up, is what I meant." 

Aileen sighs when she's done, sitting down on the bed with a heavy exhale. She runs long fingers through her silvering hair, the rings on her fingers sparkling in the room's light. Steve crawls into her lap and snuggles in her arms like a cold kitten. 

"Lil' guy's gettin sleepy." James smirks, gesturing towards the lump in her lap. Aileen smiles warmly down at her beautiful grandson, petting his downy blonde hair soothingly. 

"Ah, Steven. We have a party to attend. Do please wake up for your Grandmama." She says sweetly as little Steve sucks on his thumb, eyes closed. 

"Nah," James snorts, amused at Steve's babyish antics. "You just gotta flick his ears like so..." 

Steve startles with a petulant cry, damn near biting his little thumb off. The blonde jumps off of Aileen and makes a beeline for James, tiny fists up in the air. 

"I'm gonna get you James!" He threatens as both boys dash out of the room and down the stairs. 

Aileen huffs fondly and shakes her head. 

......................

Fine opera music fill the massive hall, echoing almost eerily from the floor to the ceilings. 

The hall is golden, it's huge panel windows framed by tapering, long blood red velvet drapes. The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling are crystal and fan out above the party like sparkling spider webs. The ceiling itself is breathtaking, textured like Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel fresco. But instead of scenes out of the Old Testament, there were beautifully memories of the Rogers family, painted in pastel blues, pinks, reds and greens. Each painting is framed by golden-painted stone arches, isolating each one like a treasured memory. 

Speak nothing of the floor, which was tiled in white marble, intricate swirling patterns lining the white in shimmering blue topaz, sparkling gold, crimson red and emerald green. It's designed like an oriental carpet, spanning the entire ballroom and lending the space a feeling of exquisite beauty and ethereal royalty. The dignitaries line the hall in a uniformed pattern, their mistresses' dresses swishing about the room with every dancing turn. It's the most magical thing James has ever seen in his life. 

The elegant music eventually comes to an end and the hall is filled with polite chatter when the dancing is done.

Steve is in his grandmother's lap, clapping and giggling excitedly at all the bright colours of the women's dresses as they float gracefully about the hall. His big blue eyes are wide with childish wonder and awe when he notices his parents holding each other close, locked in deep conversation. 

"Mama! Papa!" He squeals, clapping his tiny mitts together as Aileen presses a kiss to his head. 

"Yes, there's Mama, and there's Papa." She chuckles as Steve's attention quickly goes from his parents to her hands that are holding him protectively. He pokes curiously at one of her rings, on the middle finger. It's the only silver band amidst her regal collection of golds. But what makes it even more beautiful and alluring, is the crystal blue stone encrusted within. It cuts through the gleaming silver like a river, making weird swirling patterns all around the band. He doesn't know it yet, but the blue is the _exact_ colour of his eyes. 

"What's this Grandmama?" He asks, eyeing it curiously, tongue stuck out of the corner of his little pink mouth. 

Aileen gazes down at the ring and then smiles at him warmly. "That, is my most treasured jewel darling. It was passed down to me by my mother, and her mother before her, and so on and so forth. I think we were royalty once... of the Gaelic Kingdoms of Ireland." 

Steve gasps, looking up at her in amazement. "Wow! Is _ayerlin_ in New York?" 

Aileen chuckles in amusement and pets his head, taking off a silver chain from around her neck. "No dear, it's all the way across the sea. Perhaps when you are a little older, I can take you." 

Steve pumps his tiny fist in the air in celebration as she slips the chain around his neck. "Yes! D'you think we'll meet the King Grandmama?" Steve asks excitedly, frowning at the silver and blue pendant slinking down his little waistcoat. It resembles the aquamarine of the ring.

"Well, they don't exactly rule there anymore dear." 

Steve's face falls. "Oh," then, "What's this Grandmama?" He questions, gesturing at the silver necklace. 

Aileen gently takes it out of his curious fingers and slips it into his blazer. "That's my gift to you, darling. The ring goes along with it." 

Steve _"oohs"_ and _"ahhs"_ as she takes off the ring for him to admire. 

His ears perk up when she starts humming softly. He fixes his little butt properly in her lap and rests his head against her chest, eyes still focused on the pretty ring.

"Are you singing Grandmama?" 

"Just our lullaby, my little sweet Steven." 

"Oh do sing it for me Grandmama!" Steve pleads, his little mitts clasped together, holding the ring within, begging for his favorite lullaby. 

Aileen takes one look into his big, blue eyes and absolutely melts. 

"Well of course dear." 

She clears her throat and begins the song, her voice clear as a bell, soft and soothing. 

_"Dancing bears, painted wings,_

_Things I almost remember,_

_and a song, someone sings,_

_once upon a December."_

Steve's eyes immediately start drooping, the tiny tot sucking on his thumb sleepily, ring clasped tight.

_"Someone holds me safe and warm,_

_horses prance through a silver storm,_

_figures dancing gracefully across my memory..."_

"Hiya Stivena!" 

Steve immediately perks up at the sound of his best friend's voice, sitting up straight in Aileen's lap. He looks around wildly before his eyes settle on James's mop of dark chocolate hair. The little servant boy grins at him as he approaches, curtsying Aileen politely, then doing the same as Steve jumps down from her lap. He mimics the mannerisms of the noblemen in the hall, holding out his hand, asking for a dance. 

"May I?" 

Steve giggles and blushes at his antics, giving his own little curtsy to James, bowing his head less than gracefully. Aileen grins at them, amused as James grabs Steve up in his arms and spins him around, his peals of laughter joining Steve's delighted squeals. The boys dance and dance across the golden floor, eyes shining in childish amusement with rosy cheeks and never-ending smiles. Steve holds on to James's hands for dear life as they twirl, wind rushing past their ears and flapping their hair like sails on a boat. 

They're out of breath and positively thrilled with excitement when they eventually come to a stop, hands still clasped tightly together. Aileen is across the hall now, conversing with Steve's mother as he and James collapse on the bottom of the staircase. 

"That was fun!" Steve cackles, his little legs kicking up in the air. 

James chuckles, untangling their fingers and frowning at the ring in his palm. "Uh, Steve, what's this?" 

The blonde toddler blinks at the object before grinning. "That's Grandmama's ring! She says it's from _ayerlun._ Y'know, where the Kings are from." 

James raises an unimpressed brow. "Ayerlun? D'you mean Ireland Stivena?" 

The smaller boy pouts, a bit put off. "Well, i'unno what it's called. But Grandmama says she's from there." 

James squints at the ring, holding it up to the closest bulb to see it better. "Your Grandmama has family in Russia. That much I do know." 

"Rasha?" Steve parrots, simply pronouncing the word how he hears it. 

James smirks, trying on the ring. " _Russia, Steve._ I've never heard my father say anything about Ire-" 

_"They've taken over the mansion!"_

James quickly pulls Steve behind him, eyes locked on the scene unfolding before him. There's a loud crash and then the booming of explosives crunching through pure, solid stone wall. Smoke and fire immediately begin filling the large hall causing complete pandemonium as the guests begin screaming and scattering for safety. Loud bangs ring off amidst the terrified screams, the sounds of pistols no doubt. 

Bucky turns to Steve who is now whimpering and sobbing in fear, tears streaming down his little face. 

"Steve! Go up to your room! Now! Go!" He yells, shoving the blonde boy insistently to go up the stairs. 

"Mama! Papa!" Steve cries instead, startling as another round of shots and violent bangs go off. 

"Stivena! Listen to me! I will find them but you need to go up to your room and lock the door behind you!" 

"But Grandmama!" 

"I will find them! I promise! You need to go now and lock the door! I won't let em get you!" 

Steve's little face is pinched with worry and fear as heavy stone and fire rains from above them, engulfing the hall in ash and dust. 

"What about you?!" Steve sobs as James pushes him away, his little body too weak to fight against an eight year old's. 

James looks at him with shimmering blue eyes and grins despite the dread building in his own stomach. 

"I- I'll be fine Steve. Don't you worry pal!" 

He resorts to bodily grabbing Steve and hauling him up the stairs. Steve kicks and scratches at him but he's determined.

"Bucky!" 

He shoves the child into his room and locks the door from the outside. He slips the key into the shallow pocket of his waistcoat, vowing to open the room when this is all over and he's saved Steve's family. 

When he returns to the hall, it's a mad scene. 

Bodies are strewn about the golden tiles, drenched in blood and stone, limbs spread out stiff anf lifeless. The explosions haven't ceased and the fire only seems to be raging on. He slinks through the wreckage easily, no one being able to see a scrawny child in the rubble. He can hear their shouts of victory, like the evil cackles of hellhounds from the Underworld. 

_"We've done it lads! The Roger's are no more! This town belongs to us!"_

James feels his heart stop in his chest. He squints at the group of men dragging dead bodies out of the hall. He recognizes Joseph and Sarah... _Steve's poor parents._

He forces himself to hold on the painful sob quickly rising in his throat. His eyes become wet, burning with tears as he also notices the bodies of his brothers and his father. He wants to scream and kick and bawl at the callous men, but they're all carrying pistols and batons. He's just a little kid... how's he gonna fight these thugs? His mind is swirling and he's already inhaled too much smoke and dust. He's scared and desperate to find someone that would help him. 

But there's no sign of life amongst the piles of dead bodies around him. Steve's Grandmama is nowhere to be be seen. He lets out a quiet sob, eyes tracing frantically over the bodies that had been alive and dancing not but a few moments ago. 

_"Johann! We must be gone before dawn. We cannot be seen here."_

James scurries behind a pile of exploded stone as the sinister voices echo around the now hallowed hall. They'd been searching the kitchens and bathrooms but had missed one. 

James's stomach turns heavy as lead. 

_"There is still one room we haven't searched."_

Johann's voice rings in James's ears again. 

_"We must be swift then."_

No. 

_No!_

_Steve's in that room!_

James shoots up from his hiding spot bravely, rushing forward to warn the men off. It's an ill-fated attempt to save his little friend as he slips on rubble, falling back and smashing his head against a demolished stone pillar. 

He's out cold in a swift flash of black. 

**********

When he comes to, the place is engulfed in darkness. 

It's eerily silent but for the soft crackling of dying embers around him. It's his only source of light though he isn't sure he wants to see any more of this horrid night. The bodies are still lying across the floor like broken china dolls in an old dollhouse. Some of the corpses have their eyes open, staring at him with... _disgust? Fear? Desperation?_ He isn't sure but it sends a deep shiver down his spine as he does his best to avoid stepping on their outstretched limbs. 

He makes it up the stairs out of breath and with tears in his eye, fingers shaking as they reach for the key inside his pocket. He pauses at the silver ring that's still snug on his finger. 

When he raises his eyes upward, he realizes that the door has been blown open. The key falls to the floor with a loud clang, his hand trembling as he pushes the remaining wooden panel. 

He's sobbing before he even realizes... 

_...that the bloodstains on the wall tell him all he needs to know._


	2. The Orphan and the Con-Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young lad by the name of Christopher goes into town. There, he meets some men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Hunger gam- I mean... Happy Quarantine y'all. Enjoy.

Chapter Two- The Orphan and the Con-Men

_Fourteen Years Later._

"Goodbye Christopher!"

"Bye!" 

"Good-bye! We'll miss you!"

"Good luck, Christopher!" 

"Do be sure to visit whenever you get the chance dear boy." Said Mary Graham, head mistress of the boy's division at the Orphan Asylum Society of New York. 

She was an old lady but only by the greying of her hair. Quite contrary to this, Christopher knew her as the most formidable woman he'd ever met and he was grateful for all the lessons she'd taught him at the orphanage. _Hell_ , she'd been taking care of him ever since he knew himself. And ever since he'd been old enough to place certain things into solid memory, he'd realized that he'd been growing up as an orphan. He shared a bunk bed with another orphan named Jonathan who'd left the week prior to his own departure. The Orphanage only took care of boys until they were eighteen, in which case they'd thus be sent on their way to make their mark on the big city. 

_These were exciting times._

"I'll make sure, Ma'am." He promises, planting a fond kiss to Mary's hand before waving to the little boys who were peering out the window of the orphanage. 

"You're still following that plan of yours? Hm?" 

Christopher chuckles bashfully, fiddling with the silver necklace around his neck. "It's never changed since. I've got family in Ireland. I'm sure of it." 

Mary smiles at him with a glimmer of hope in her eyes and he loves her all the more for it.

"Be smart out there, lad. Things aren't getting any better from the looks of it." 

Christopher fixes his paper-boy hat, tugs his tweed coat a little tighter around him and gives her his best smile. 

"Well things certainly can't get any _worse_ Ma'am." He grins, flashing her a dazzling white smile and a daring sparkle in his sky blue eyes.

..............

"Anthony!" 

"Aye, James. How many times have I told you to call me Tony?!" 

James rolls his eyes dramatically before shoving the paper into the shorter man's hands. Tony shakes his head but fixes spectacles to peer into the paper. He frowns at James. 

"Goodness, will you tell me what I'm supposed to be staring at in shock here?" 

James rolls his eyes again at the man before pointing a finger to a specific spot on the page. He observes Tony in anticipation, the man's whiskey eyes narrowing with interest. He stares for a while longer, then blinks up at James... and then looks back down into the paper. 

"Well, are you going to say something or do I have to spell it out for you?" James asks impatiently, snatching the paper out of his companion's hand. Tony sends him a pointed look and shrugs. 

"You might have to, because all I saw was the very same advertisement campaign you've been shoving down my throat canal _all month."_

James tosses the paper on the table frustratedly, fists pulling and tugging around long strands of brunette locks. He rubs at his eyes tiredly and then resorts to calmly placing both hands on his hips.

"They raised the reward bounty. The Russian authorities are asking for the Rogers boy in return for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars!" 

Tony frowns, tilting his head like a curious bird. 

"Don't they carry rubles in Mother Russia?" 

James nods. "Yes, but the private body posting the reward said that we'd be paid in American currency. Come now Tony, do you not see the golden opportunity here?"

Tony shrugs rather nonchalantly. "I see _an_ opportunity... but how are you so sure we're going to find this boy? And what is your obsession with the Rogers' family anyway? They all died like fourteen years ago- _Steven included_."

"Murdered." 

James scoffs in annoyance at Tony's stubbornness, turning away from him in favour of glaring at the aging picture on his desk. He stalks up to it and picks it up, stormy blue eyes staring hard at the family etched onto the canvas in oil pastels. It's a rather small portrait of the famous family of New York, but one that had been commissioned by the wealthy business owner himself, Joseph Rogers. James had retrieved it about two years ago when he'd been searching through the rubble that was once the great Rogers Mansion. It was the only thing he'd managed to salvage before the state arrived to tear the building down.

In it, the colours swirl and weave seamlessly across the canvas, painting a beautiful memory. Smooth brushstrokes set out wavy lengths of hair, darkened browns and white blonde like fine-spun gold. The man, as James knows him, is Joseph, tall, robust and commanding. His suit is tailored to perfection and accented with a sleek gold trim across the fine pinstripe. He looks regal, like a great King who'd ruled over vast empires a very long time ago. Next to him, is his wife, Sarah Rogers. Her eyes are a crystal blue in comparison to his which are more of a blue with strong hints of green. Her hair is a rich golden blonde, long and flowing down like liquid. It frames her petite face beautifully, giving her the appearance of an angel or something to James. Her beauty was almost ethereal and it tugs at his chest to know that she'd suffered such a violent and tragic death. 

In her arms was their one and only son, Steven. 

The boy looked to be about two or three years old, with big and bright blue eyes and hair finer than silk and more golden than the most precious metal itself. His lips were pouty and his cheeks were chubby and blushing. He looked so delicate in Sarah's arms, but still warm and protected... still loved. Steve had died during the invasion back in 1901, along with his parents, his grandmother and various state dignitaries and their wives. It had been a bloody mark on the city ever since. But to James, it had been haunting his mind ever since he was a little boy. 

He'd have these recurring dreams about the Mansion- perhaps because he'd lived so close to the place as an orphan. But it all seemed so vivid and _real;_ the smoke and the dust and the blood... He couldn't put a number to the amount of times he'd woken up in a cold sweat over the very same sequence night after night. Tony had even been the one to shake him from his nightmares when his sobs and screams had cut through the silence of the night. 

The man had chalked it up to mere obsession with the mystery of how the family had been murdered but James begged to differ. 

It wasn't so much obsession as it was being intensely curious as to the subject of his nightmares- 

"Hello? Good God, his eyes have glazed over. He's day-dreaming on his feet." Tony chirps dramatically, waving a hand in front of his face. 

James shakes the reverie out of his head and smacks Tony's hand away. 

"A right menace you are Anthony." He mutters dryly, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. It wasn't anything fancy- not that they could afford fancy- but it was enough to take the edge off. 

Tony grins and grabs a bottle from his desk drawer, pouring out his own poison. Russian vodka. 

"Hey, where'd you get that?" James exclaims, snatching it from the man and slugging down a swift gulp. It's strong alright; pure Russian sustenance.

Tony raises a brow at him before taking back the bottle. "Miss Potts snuck em from the market for me. Premium stuff too." 

James can't help but not in agreement; _that was some good vodka._

He sighs in defeat though he's not sure what he's lost or why he even feels defeated. 

"What are we gonna do Tony?" 

"About what lad?" 

James rolls his eyes at the title but feels some comfort in it. Sometimes it was hard to forget that Tony was much older than him; a good thirty years while he himself was only twenty-two. 

"When the authorities come and clean out this place? We're basically squatting here." 

Tony nods slowly at him, a distant look in his hazel eyes. He scratches at his sleek black goatee idly, not knowing what to do with himself in that particular moment. 

"They haven't caught us in a year. We just need a new client to rent this shack, make us enough money to buy two tickets and voilà! We're on our way to California."

"To inherit your parents' estate in Tinsel town." James adds, shooting Tony an unimpressed look. 

Tony reciprocates the expression but with a little more sass. 

"It's a much better plan than yours _Bucko._ Collecting a fat bounty for the return of a boy that's been dead for years? Not a great plan." 

James rolls his eyes. "First of all, it's _Bucky_ and second, it doesn't have to be _the_ Rogers boy. We just need to get someone that looks like him, serve him up to the Russians, collect the bounty and then disappear. It's quite simple really." 

Tony purses his lips disapprovingly. "Now now James. You know you can't lie to the Russians." 

"I'm serious Tony." 

"So am I. Look, let's not get caught up in delusions of grandeur and be realistic here-" 

"So I'm not being realistic?"

"I never said that-"

"The implication was there. You're still treating me like some stupid, clueless kid." 

"Your plan isn't fool-proof." 

James scoffs, annoyed now. He mutters a quiet "whatever" before storming out of their temporary living quarters. He purposely stomps down the rickety staircase so that Tony hears. On his way out of the downstairs apartment, a man greets him at the door. 

"Good day Sir! I was told by a Mrs Houghton that there was someone I could talk to about boarding accomodations? A fellow here by the name of Barnes, perhaps? I'm interested in renting a room for the next couple of d-" 

"He's upstairs." James scowls harshly without even looking at the man, brushing rudely past him. 

Tony could deal with clients since he was all grown and mature, he thinks bitterly. 

....................

The town was alive and bustling with people and animals and bright sunshine. 

Christopher took a huge gulp of breath as he approached the street with a hopeful smile and a sprint in his step. He's dreamed of exploring the town for so many years, stuck inside the walls of the orphanage that it's almost surreal to be there at all. Mary had warned him of the dangers of big cities and the underlying threat they held. But seeing it now, and all the shops and fruit stalls and the busy people walking and bumping into each other like busy bees, he couldn't help but embrace the unknown. This was a new experience for him and he was bursting with excitement. He was finally on his own, free to roam the city, free to embrace a new life. 

"How much Ma'am?" He asks politely, putting on his best smile like Mary taught him. 

The market woman returns his smile, albeit with her own set of crooked and rotted teeth. 

"A basket of six for a wheat penny dear boy!" She chirrups, placing several plums in a paper bag. 

"Thank you very much Ma'am. Have a nice day!" Christopher replies, mood jolly from that one conversation. The lady's kind attitude was something he hadn't been expecting but was secretly hoping for. He wanted to prove Mary wrong and show her that the city did have some very nice folks. He places the parcel in his box suitcase and locks it. Then, he's on his way again. 

He crosses the busy market street, rotten fruit and cabbage leaves littering the rain wet asphalt. His well-worn shoes tap lightly against the road as he hurries along the pavements, suitcase knocking and rolling viciously behind him. He hears the blaring of the horn at the station, and sees the white smoke rising in thick puffs just above the crowded terminus. Commuters hustle and bustle about, women holding the hands of wandering children whilst serious men in worn suits line up at the queue to punch their tickets. 

Steve breaks into a staggering run, the weight of his suitcase keeping him back. It's mightily difficult to manoeuvre past the crowds of people and he does end up running into a few of them. They don't do much except snort and toss him extremely dirty looks. 

"Sorry!" He hollers, their scowls and bitter demeanour soften somewhat when they see his earnest blue eyes, plush pink smile and boyish charm. _He's as pretty as a dame_ , Margaret the head chef of the orphanage had said to Mary once. 

"Ah! Good gracious me, you must be in quite a hurry to crash into an old lady like myself!" A woman cries out when Christopher turns around, mortified. He's inches from stepping on her foot and straight up toppling over the short woman. 

"I must apologize Ma'am, I meant no harm I swear it." He mends politely, stepping back and bending down to retrieve the book he'd knocked out of her hand when he crashed into her. 

"Didn't your parents tell you not to swear dear?" The red-headed woman comments crossly though she seems more intent on dusting off her precious book. 

Christopher smiles at her, helping her dust the book off. "Well, I don't recall ever having any parents Ma'am. But Miss Mary at the orphanage taught me how to be a gentleman. I do sincerely apologize if I've injured you Ma'am." 

The horn of the train blares again and the sound reverberates in loud vibrations around the station. 

"You trying to catch this train lad?" The woman asks with narrowed green eyes. 

Christopher nods. "Yes Ma'am." 

She purses her lips and snorts good-naturedly. "Be a dear and help me with my trunk why don't ya?" She smirks, already climbing aboard the train. 

"The name's Anne-Marie Houghton." 

The blonde lad smiles earnestly, eyes shining brighter than the big, blue sky. 

"Christopher Robin." 

.......................

A few hours later, he had arrived in New Haven. 

Anne-Marie had told him of a man called James Buchanan Barnes who rented out a room for a reasonable sum of money. She'd also mentioned that it was an apartment next to the infamous Rogers Mansion. Growing up, Christopher had always been intrigued by the story of the ominous Rogers family and how their glorious _castle_ had been torched and burned to ash by angry workers. From his readings of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, he's supposed that it was only fair play, that the working class had become frustrated with the regime of Joseph Rogers and had taken a turn on the man and his family. But he still found it absolutely tragic and had felt mournful at the thought of Joseph's wife, Sarah and their little boy- Steven-who'd also perished at the hands of the disgruntled workers. 

That morbid fact aside, Christopher's interests were peaked at the idea of living next to a building with such a haunting history. He'd hastened to the place on his worn out and weary feet, excitement and nerves wracking his entire body. 

_Then he saw it..._

The entire mansion was surrounded by gates and fences of wrought iron, once painted black but was now rusting and falling apart. They stick out of the earth more than ten feet tall, ending in sharp, deadly-looking hooks. A sign had been hung upon the gates, the paint faded but still recognizable. 

_STRICTLY NO TRESPASSING. THIS PROPERTY BELONGS TO THE STATE._

He looks up at the remnants of a once brilliant and regal mansion, and his chest expands painfully. For some reason he feels weirdly nostalgic but most of him is confused. The beautiful pathway up to the building's corpse is overgrown with prickly bushes and vines. There are noticeable soot marks staining the windows and doors. The roof looks slightly caved in from where he's standing and there are heaps of broken stone, rubble and wrought iron rods in the great doorway. 

The cheerful chirping of a bird distracts him and he quickly shakes his head, clearing the fog out of his head. 

_Get a move on Robin,_ he tells himself. 

Then he proceeds to knock on the door of the battered, old building next to the mansion and gets response at first. The door looks to be slightly off its hinges and is just hanging there for anyone to walk in. He figures they must be very welcoming and takes two steps inside- 

_There's a man stalking towards him._

"Good day Sir! I was told by a Mrs Houghton that there was someone I could talk to about boarding accomodations? A fellow here by the name of Barnes, perhaps? I'm interested in renting a room for the next couple of d-" 

He's an ominous flash of dark coat, long messy hair and a terrible attitude. 

"He's upstairs." 

Christopher's smile stays frozen on his lips for a moment as his eyes continue to follow the man's rapidly retreating back. He shrugs and decides to take it with a grain of salt. The man must have been having a bad day or something. 

"Ignore him lad." A strong voice calls from the top of the groaning staircase. 

Christopher looks up and catches the sight of a man, probably not more than five foot six, standing at the top of the staircase, a proud uplift to his bearded chin. He's wearing a fancy suit, black with grey pinstripe that's fitted impeccably to his lean form. A sleek red tie wraps gracefully around his neck, leading down his chest and into the waistcoat. The last time he'd seen a man so well dressed had been when the town mayor had paid a visit to the orphanage back in 1909. _This must be Barnes,_ he thinks. 

"Good day Mr Barnes!" He greets politely, "A Miss Anne-Marie Houghton told me I could find you here." 

Tony smirks and beckons him upstairs. "Come now. We haven't got all day. You got a name?" 

"Christopher Robin, sir." 

Christopher hastily makes his way up the creaking and groaning steps, opting to leave his trunk at the door. 

"It's been a while since we've gotten any bodies for boarding purposes. What brings you to the great town of New Haven?" Tony questions, his tone jolly and his demeanour much more relaxed than the first man. 

Christopher sits on the chair the man pulls up from the nearby desk. 

"Well I haven't been to many places because the rules of the orphanage have always been strict. Field trips were always limited and they never really let us wander around for risk of being led astray." 

Tony frowns. "You stayed at an orphanage? Which one?" 

"Uh the Orphan Asylum Society of New York." He answers, pausing before he adds, "I assure you I do have money for a room Mr Barnes. My upbringing does not reflect my-"

"Oh, _do_ forgive me lad. I was, in no way, trying to demean you. It's just that, I have been in and out of several orphanages in my day. I thought we might have mutual friends. Tell me, is Madam Graham still there?" 

Christopher smiles and it's brilliant. "Yes! She is, along with Mr Harrington and Lady Richard." 

Tony waves a hand, cackling. "Oh Mr Harrington was a piece of work. Couldn't sneak past him on a Friday night." 

Christopher chuckles. "I only tried once and never did again for fear of being hung by my ankles." 

Tony cackles gleefully, and Christopher can see past the slight frown lines on his forehead, to the bright young man that was once there. It's an amazing thing to witness. They chat for at least twenty minutes more until Tony realizes that it's getting late. 

"Now, let's talk about that room of yours." 

"Certainly." Christopher remarks with an easy smile. 

"It's modest, as you can probably tell by the entirety of this godforsaken building. But it functions as any normal apartment would. You'll have a roof over your head, a warm bed to sleep in and an unprecedented view of the mansion from the back porch." 

"You got a lot of tourists passing through?" 

Tony makes a motion with his hand. "More or less."

"Oh."

"Our rate is fifteen dollars per month which is to be paid at the end of every month, just a little mercy on our part. These times are getting tougher and tougher." 

Christopher nods wholeheartedly. "I agree." 

Tony looks up to a point somewhere behind his head and then grins at him. 

"Oh and by the way, this is Mr James Barnes." 

Christopher frowns and rounds on the man entering the room behind him. He had a bitter scowl on his otherwise very handsome face and his hair was long, brown and greasy. He wore a less regal-looking suit that was slightly crumpled and sported several stains. His eyes were stormy, grey-blue and hooded as he stared at them crossly. 

"I thought- ..." The young man stuttered, his words leaving him as the apparent James Barnes crosses the room and goes to his desk. 

"Where's my chair?" 

Christopher looks down at the chair he's sitting on and shoots up immediately, looking sincerely apologetic. 

"I- I'm so sorry-" He begins but Tony cuts him off. 

"Now now lad, it's quite alright. Mr Barnes here is just being juvenile about a conversation we had earlier. Nothing to do with you, of course." 

James huffs rudely. 

Tony narrows his eyes at him. "James, do be a dear and introduce yourself properly to Christopher. He's come all the way from the New York orphanage in search of a place to stay." 

"It's a pleasure." 

Christopher holds out his hand for a shake which James pointedly ignores. 

"Have you even thought about what I said _Anthony_?" 

His voice is deep and raspy and crashes over Christopher like a battering ocean wave. He's rude and uncouth and it absolutely threatens the fringes of his politeness. But he's a good lad, as Miss Mary had always taught him to be. 

"You must be Anthony, then?" He asks of the man in the impeccable suit. 

Tony takes his hand and shakes it firmly. "Yes but most of my acquaintances call me Tony." 

"You _have_ no acquaintances." James comments in annoyance, rolling his eyes as he drags his chair back to the desk. 

Tony shoots him a deathly side-eye but then smiles warmly at Christopher. 

"I must apologize, James here was dropped on his head at birth. Poor thing hasn't had a single good thought since then." 

Christopher struggles to hold in his laughter, instead reaching for his paper-boy hat and taking it off. He doesn't realize it but suddenly, James's expression changes and he's staring intently at the fluffy mop of fine blonde hair on him. Tony notices too and for the first time that day, stops talking. 

Then he looks up and both men are staring at him intently. It's the most attention he's ever gotten in his life and he quickly looks down to hide his blush. _Didn't their Mamas tell them not to stare? It was rude and unbecoming of a young lad._

Tony quickly comes back to himself. 

"Um, I think we should finish up here for the evening. I'll get your keys for th- James..." 

But James doesn't hear him because he's slowly approaching Christopher like a predator. Slow but certain steps until he's directly in front of him, breathing the same air as him. Their eyes meet and James heart damn near stops as he gazes. Christopher's eyes are the bluest blue he's ever seen in his life, almost like the painted portrait on his desk. He's got pale skin that's got a baby pink undertone from his blush. His lips are full, and really plump and so, so _pink._ His hair matches the boy in the picture too, and he's got a baby face that James can't quite place though he's sure he's seen it somewhere before.

 _And not just in a picture._

"What did you say your name was again, boy?" 

"C- ...Christopher Robin... s- sir?" 

James stalks out the door again, this time less angry and more panicky. Christopher tilts his head in utter confusion until Tony breaks the awkward silence in the room with an uneasy grin. 

"He's not always like that, I assure you. Now, let's get the paper work done." 

Christopher nods distractedly, blue eyes wide and lost as he hands over fifteen crumpled up dollars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you like it or not. I'm not sticking too closely to the plot of Anastasia but it's the basis of this fic. Love, Sam.


	3. A Change of Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James needs to make Christopher believe the impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, Happy Easter! Hope you enjoy this chapter.

A Change of Plans 

"I'm telling you Tony! He's _perfect!"_

The black-haired man sighed tiredly, rubbing at his temples as he slouched over his desk. It was way past midnight, he's sure of it and yet, James can't seem to take a hint. Of course, Tony himself wasn't exactly sleepy but he was busy studying some documents about his supposed fortune back in California. And James clearly couldn't see that! All caught up in some boy who somehow magically appeared to look exactly like the long, lost Rogers child. 

"He won't be on board with this, I'm telling you." He comments rather nonchalantly, head buried in his desk as James paces the room. 

"He doesn't have to know _everything_ about it. We just need to tell him opportunities are non-existent in Ireland and that Russia's where it's at."

Tony runs a hand through his hair. "And then what? We leave him there?"

James shrugs, as if to say 'yeah, so what.' 

"Chances are, whoever's looking for him is a distant relative who just wants him back. I'm sure they'll find it hard to deny that he's the Rogers kid. He's got the big blue eyes and the white-blonde hair, Tony. He's the closest thing we've ever seen to Steve." 

Tony shakes his head, like he's trying to convince himself that what James is saying makes even an ounce of sense. 

"Okay, fine. Supposing he _is_ the Rogers boy-" 

"Then we could turn him in for the money!" 

Tony holds a hand up. "Wait. I suggest that if you really wish to follow through with this plan, then you must get to know him. And try to convince him that he is the lost son of Joseph Rogers." 

James screws up his nose with disdain. "Um, how are we supposed to do that?" 

" _We,_ are not going to do it. _You_ are." Tony corrects, smiling smugly. 

"What?" 

"This is your idea after all." 

James shoots Tony a deadly glare. "You're a spiteful one, ain't ya?" 

Tony shrugs and offers him a cheese eating grin. 

"Your plan, your responsibility. And just as an aside? Don't bother the poor thing just yet. He's only just getting settled in." 

James throws his hands up in utter confusion. 

"Well then how long do ya want me to wait, genius?" 

Tony shrugs again, the expression on his face way too calm. 

"I suggest you give him about a day or two before you go barging into his life and turning it upside down. Now, please do leave me to my work lad? I've got some errands to run in the morning and shall like to wake before sunrise to follow through on my dues." 

James rolls his eyes and raises both hands on surrender. 

"Alright old man, I'll leave ya to it. Goodnight Anthony." 

"Goodnight to you, James." 

......................

_*Three Days Later.*_

The moon sheds its frosty glitter through the dirty window panes, engulfing the modest but cozy room in an ethereal glow. A chilly wind scanners past the open windows, making the sheer white curtains dance and frolic hauntingly. Dark shadows fill every corner of the small room, creating morbid illusions that wouldn't seem as scary in the morning as they were in the night. On the small bed shoved to the farthest corner of the room, a figure rests uneasily, drenched in cold sweat and shivering from anything but the cold. 

_"Steve!"_ A frightened voice calls but he's too small, too far away to catch up. 

_"Bucky! Help me!"_ The voice belongs to a child, and a frightened one at that. 

_"Well, well, well, look at what we've got here."_ A more sinister voice taunts, and he can see fire all around them. _Them._ Plural. 

_"Bucky! Please!"_

_"Come here little one..."_

A shrill scream wakes him up dead in the middle of the night. He's drenched in sweat despite the cold mist filling the small room and the icy fog puffing past his lips with every desperate breath he pulls in. The shiver passing through him makes his spine curl and he throws off the hand-stitched blanket from over his legs. He curls his knees up close to his chest and hugs them while resting his chin on his forearms. There are tears running down his face but he chooses to ignore them, wiping them angrily on his night shirt's sleeve.

"It's just a stupid dream." He mutters childishly to himself. 

He glances around the room, noting the shivering curtains and the silver shaft of moonlight beaming in through the window panes. The dull, grey concrete adds to the eeriness of the small space, nothing quite like what he'd had at the orphanage. He yearns for Mary's hugs; they were the best at night, _especially_ after he'd had a terrible nightmare. And he'd had _plenty_ of those. God alone knew how many times he'd woken up the entire orphanage with his terrified screams and cries. His nightmares had hung like an albatross around his neck for years... or should he say _hang._

Because apparently, they were still happening. 

He curses softly to himself, wiping furiously at the tears stinging his eyes. 

"Thought I was over this." He hisses at his reflection in the mirror as he passes by the cupboards. His eyes flicker to the open window to his left, feet shuffling forward before he even has a chance to think about it. The cold wind greets him harshly, invading his white and blue striped night shirt and cotton trousers, causing him to shiver violently. The imposing profile of the Rogers Mansion catches his attention and he pauses, observing it intently. 

_Three days._

It had been three days since he'd become a tenant of this modest apartment in New Haven and he hadn't given in to his inner urges to go and visit the old gem. 

He could feel it taunting him now, beating wildly under his skin like a pulse. It sinks into his flesh and makes his heart pound in his chest as he keeps staring at the stone building. Thoughts rush past his mind like the water in a river... _Is this the place? Is this the one I see in my dreams? Have I ever been here before? Why does it all seem so familiar yet so unknown?_

It takes him exactly one minute to gather up his courage and another to find his outdoor shoes. Doesn't even occur to him to put on a thick coat to battle the bitter coldness raging outside. He's already halfway up the beaten track, the mansion looming in the distance. 

***

When he crosses the broken fencing around the property- obviously put there by the state- its almost as if he's on hallowed ground. 

A melancholic almost reverent silence falls around him and shushes him into sheer reverie. The grass around the mansion is dead, browned and darkened with soot and overturned earth. As far as his eyes can see, the rubble surrounding the outer walls are all stone and glass. He'd heard that the state had cleaned out the place but obviously the had been a long time ago, during which the clean-up had been neglected and now the place was practically left to rot. His chest twitches with excitement and _something else_ he can't quite explain but he feels it anyway. 

The back door creaks and groans as he pushes it open, his shadow stretching far into the room. His hand shakes as he holds up the candelabrum, casting the soft, yellow light inwards. His footsteps echo eerily in the empty hall and he hears the unusual sound of bats screeching as they fly across the ceiling. He frowns, noticing swirling patterns on the tiles but they're covered in dust so it's hard to truly make out any distinctive colours. He keeps walking forward until a loud bang causes him to freeze, his heart almost catatonic as it beats hard from the fright. He looks around wildly, brandishing his candlestick like a weapon in the direction of the sound.

But he doesn't hear it again. 

Instead, the chandeliers above him suddenly light up, filling the grand hall in a dim orange glow. He's unable to stop the gasp from his throat as he gazes around in wonder, the room suddenly coming to life as he stands there, dumbstruck. The dusty floor reflects the chandeliers despite being coated with dust and cobwebs and the ceiling- he has to pause to catch his breath because it's _so beautiful._ The background is painted in a soft white and blue, while the people and scenes painted in their are made of vibrant pink, red, violet and orange pastel. It's like Michelangelo's miraculous work at the Sistine Chapel. 

There are two throne like chairs placed at least two feet apart at the furthest end of the hall, made of gold and red velvet. He imagines Joseph and Sarah being seated there, gentle smiles upon their faces as they enjoyed the ballroom dances and the circus display happening before their eyes. He doesn't know what their little boy Steven would be up to but he imagines that the boy is being taken care of by a very capable nanny while the Rogers entertain their guests. _And the music,_ he wonders in his head, resting his candlestick on the floor to the side before returning to the dance floor. 

_Oh the wonderful music that must have been played while they danced in the great hall._

He closes his eyes for a moment, humming softly to himself, unaware that he's swaying gently to his own melody. It's like his feet know all the right moves, taking him across the oriental tiles with grace and poise he never knew he had. He imagines holding on to someone, hands out, wrapped around someone who'd once taught him to waltz perhaps. Cold wind rushes or his ears as he spins and twirls and dips with every step that comes naturally to him. His hums eventually bleed into a familiar tune Mary had always sung for him when he was much younger. 

_"Dancing bears,_

_Painted wings,_

_Things I almost remember,_

_And a song someone sings,_

_Once upon a December;_

_Someone holds me safe and warm,_

_Horses prance through a silver storm,_

_Figures dancing gracefully across my memory..."_

In his head, he imagines dozens of men and women dressed in their finest suits, dresses and jewelry. His eyes are dazzled by the glitter of precious diamonds, pearls, rubies and emeralds. Beautiful dresses toss themselves around in bright golden, pink, purple and blue silks, swaying magically to his voice as he sings the familiar melody. 

_"Someone holds me safe and warm,_

_Horses prance through a silver storm,_

_Figures dancing gracefully across my memory..._

_Far away, long ago,_

_Glowing dim as an ember,_

_Things my heart used to know,_

_Things it yearns to remember..."_

He finally sees the man, Joseph Rogers; tall and strong, a formidable man in his fancy three-piece suit, not dazzling in his eyes and his cheeks red with laughter. He seems so happy and content standing next to his wife Sarah. Her blonde hair glows like fine spun gold under the chandeliers, her crystal blue eyes like a reflection staring back at him. His heart leaps in his chest as he bows to them- a curtsy it was called. 

_"And a song someone sings..._

_Once upon a December."_

The calm he feels after that doesn't quiet his mind or his heart. He can feel the blood pulsing hot inside his veins, his chest heaving with exertion and his face wet. He pretends it's sweat and not tears and wipes his face in his sleeve. 

"Three days and you just couldn't resist could you?" 

Christopher gasps and rounds on the voice behind him. 

_It's James._

The brunette slowly comes out of his perch in the shadows behind the staircase, stalking up to the blonde. His grey-blue eyes scan the striped night shirt and trousers, nose screwing up, clearly unimpressed. He himself is draped in much darker garb, black and wine- coloured silk. 

"I- ...I had trouble sleeping." Christopher answer honestly, cheeks burning red with guilt.

James nods. "So you sleep-walked all the way up the forbidden path and ended up here." 

"I'm sorry-" Christopher begins but stops when James starts to walk around him. " _Why_ are you circling me? Were you a vulture in another life?" 

James snorts and shrugs, but thankfully stops his 'vulturing.' "Not likely." He huffs, stalking away and taking up residence on one of the chairs in the hall. 

"Well, why are _you_ up?" The blonde counters, straightening his shirt and fixing his fluffy hair as James's piercing gaze fixates on him again. 

James shrugs. "Couldn't sleep." 

Christopher sends him a withering glare and sighs, exasperated. 

"Are you always _this_ nice to newcomers?" 

James sends him his first real smile since they'd met and he's not too sure how to take it. It's almost... _disarming,_ but he'd never tell the man that! 

"I'm not nice. Ever. I figured out a long time ago, it's better to be a menace." 

The blonde frowns thoughtfully at that, chewing on his plush lower lip. 

"Must be a very tough way to live." 

It's James's turn to frown. "How so?" 

Christopher shrugs. "No one would want to be around you. Much less _like_ you." 

"That what they teach you at that fancy orphanage, Mr Robin? Make people like you so your life might be a little less tough?" James replies condescendingly, his eyes taking on a hard, steely edge. 

The blonde holds his stare and doesn't back down from his obvious challenge. Men like James, he's learned, are all about dominance and making a point. Their only goal is to best everyone else at anything and everything, even if that means a simple conversation. But Christopher's been raised better than that. 

"Or it can simply be a way to make friends. Not everything has to be a battle." He says simply, an easy smile on his face. He can tell James has been through a great deal, and he knows that being equally hard-headed isn't going to make their relationship easier. So he turns on the charm that Mary had always accused him of using on the maids in the kitchen. 

James apparently realizes this because suddenly his face softens and he huffs, looking away from the blonde. 

"What do you want Christopher?" He asks out of the blue, holding up a hand when he realizes how the question sounds. 

"Forgive me, I wasn't trying to be rude."

"This time." Christopher comments and James blinks up at him in surprise before he catches the mischievous grin on his face. 

"Good one. But I kinda meant, what did you have in mind when you headed in this direction? New Haven's a nice town but there aren't many opportunities here." 

Christopher nods. "I don't plan to stay. I have family in Ireland. That's where I plan to go." 

James frowns at the revelation before gazing at the blonde in front of him. "Ireland, aye?" 

Christopher nods again and James hums softly. 

"Y'know, you look oddly familiar to someone I know." 

"I do?" 

"Well, someone I know _of."_

Christopher tilts his head. "Who?" 

James shakes his head at first, executing his skills to force the anticipation out of the blonde. 

"I don't think you'd even want to know..." 

"Oh but I do!" Christopher chirps, "You have inspired my curiosities." 

James exhales dramatically, running a hand through his brunette locks lazily as he slumps on the throne chair. He rolls his eyes and huffs at Christopher's sparkly blue puppy eyes, and somehow finds the sight endearing. 

"Fine," he concedes, rising from his seat, "But before I tell you, I must ask you a simple question." 

"Yes?" The blonde replies eagerly, an adorable smile on his hopeful face. 

"What do you remember... in your time before the orphanage?" 

The smile freezes on Christopher's face, his skin pale and cheeks drained of their youthful blush. His eyes become distant and suddenly, he's no longer excited. The past hadn't exactly been a friend of his shattered memory. For years since he'd known he was a little lad living in a home for disowned children, he'd questioned why his parents hadn't loved him enough to keep him. He'd woken Mary up many a night from his mournful cries at night. It had taken a lot for him to move on from that bitter part of his life, but he'd done it. 

And now here was this handsome but ultimately rude and uncouth gentleman asking him about this past that he'd tried his damnest to forget. 

A hand touches his shoulder firmly, shaking him. "You alright pal?" 

He yanks himself away from the touch, fixing James with a sour look. 

"It is no business of yours." 

James raises both hands, gesturing his surrender. 

"Look, I get it. The past is best left forgotten but, don't you think it'd be best to really be sure of it, in order to know where you're going?" 

Christopher frowns hard, pondering James's words carefully. Then he demands, "What do you know?" 

James shrugs, pacing in front of the blonde idly, hands shoved into his pockets. 

"Well, it's not so much what I know. It's more of, what I've discovered." 

The blonde man narrows his eyes at the brunette. "Do explain yourself to me and cease from your tiresome riddles, Mr Barnes." 

James grins at him before beckoning him up the stairs. Christopher rolls his eyes but follows the man for a lack of anything better to do. James leads him to a secluded room that's so far in the corner of the hallway, that it could easily be forgotten or missed. There is no door, but it seems as if an old curtain was hung hastily in the doorway. _Who would want to block out anyone from a room if no one was allowed to visit the mansion?_ Christopher holds on to his question as he slips past the curtain and steps into a room filled with... junk. 

"What is all this?" He asks but doesn't seem to wait for an answer as he gazes around with bright eyes. 

There are old dresses and trousers strewn about an old and dusty cupboard. A tiny cot is tucked into the corner, the wood wasting away from dust-mites. He notices a few dirty pillows and several boxes filled with more junk. Dusty picture frames made of gold are leaned up on the wall closest to him and he tries to make out the faces on the canvas. 

"What is this?" He demands, eyeing James nervously as the man starts humming to himself. James turns to him and smiles but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. 

"This, used to be the room of the boy who lived here. Steven Rogers." 

Christopher gasps in honest shock, looking around the room again and suddenly appreciating the ancient items a bit more now. The rickety cot must have been his, and the small pillows too. Some of the stuffed teddies in the boxes are grey with ash and dust but they look like toys a little child might have played with. Across the room, James takes out a painting and brings it over to him. It's fairly large, framing the image of a man, his wife and their young child. 

"This is them... isn't it?" 

"Yes." James replies with a much softer tone. "Joseph Rogers, the father, Sarah, the mother and Steven, their precious little son." 

Steve is enchanted by the painting, becoming lost in it for a moment. James lets him. He examines Joseph's face and feels his heart tug in his chest. God, he feels so sorry for this poor family. They looked so happy, he thinks; he also says as much. 

"They were probably miserable." James answers softly, knowing that Christopher wouldn't hear him. 

The blonde orphan touches the painting when he looks at Sarah, noting her silky blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. She has an easy smile on her face and he can tell she was happy in this instance. She's leaning her body into Joseph's and her arms are full with a little bundle of joy. Steve is smiling, as happy as any toddler can be, his bright blue eyes rivaling that of his mother's. There's a pink blush to all of their faces, even the child's, and suddenly Christopher's heart breaks for them. He sighs heavily and puts down the painting. 

"Why did you show this to me?" He questions, not aggressive but firm anyway. 

James folds his arms and leans on the old cupboard. 

"Why d'you think, Mr Christopher Robin?" 

His face passes through a myriad of emotions before he eventually settles on blank. He looks back at James and finds the man staring his down intently. A heat rises up from his gut, spreading upwards until it touches his neck and his cheeks. 

"Are you-" _No._ He takes a deep breath before continuing. 

"Are you saying that _I'm_ the lost Rogers boy? That I'm Steven?" 

It sounds ridiculous out loud and even James seems a bit unsure of the idea now. He approaches Christopher slowly, circling him once again like a vulture. His hands reach out, unwelcome and intrusive as he touches the boy's hair, stares deep into his eyes, peels back his collar to peek at his pale skin. He notices a silver chain hanging round the lad's neck and holds it in his hand. The pendant is shaped like a small medallion, silver with an angel on its front made out of a blue stone. Christopher gently pries it out of his hand and takes a step back. 

"Excuse me Sir but you're a bit too close for comfort." 

"You look like him!" James insists, "You even have his eyes! _And_ if he were alive, he'd be almost the same age as yourself." 

The blonde narrows his eyes at the man. "You don't even know how old I am." 

"Seventeen? Eighteen? I'm right aren't I?" 

Christopher frowns but then nods in concession. "Eighteen. How could you tell?" 

James shrugs with a nonchalant air. "Just guessed." 

Christopher glares at the man pointedly before tucking his necklace back into his night shirt protectively. He fixes himself and wipes a hand over his face warily. He's always had suspicions about his past but had never thought that he was related to perhaps one of the city's greatest tragedies. This was all too surreal-

"I know it's a hard pill to swallow, but it's very rare that you have the same white-blonde hair as the Rogers boy and the same piercing blur eyes. You even have the baby face." James says, so not helping his anxiety and internal conflict at the moment. 

He screws up his nose at that and mutters petulantly, "I don't have a baby face." 

"You do." James insists, sighing after a while, possibly exhausted from trying to convince the poor lad he was something that he actually wasn't.

"Look, truth be told, Tony and I..." He pauses for effect, and Christopher's eyes sharpen with curiosity as expected. 

"You and Tony?" 

"The truth is, we're special recruits."

The blonde boy makes a face. "Recruits?" 

James nods fervently, not even sure where he was going with this lie but committed all the same. 

"Yep. That's right, recruits. We were contracted by a distant relative of the Rogers family to find you." 

The poor lad's eyes light up like fireworks then, mouth hanging open slightly as he frowns in total disbelief. "Wh- what?" 

"Well, to find the Rogers child. So far, none of the boys your age have fit the bill. But you? You're a reflection of Steven Rogers. And, you have the backstory to boot." 

Christopher shakes his head. "My life isn't a backstory. You're making this all up." 

James quickly blocks the way as he tries to leave. He gasps, offended at the man's childish antics. 

"What are you- stop it! Let me go!" 

"I'm not holding you hostage. And you can leave whenever you wish. I just wish you'd think about it." 

Christopher purses his perfect lips. "I have. And my plan is to go to Ireland." 

"Why Ireland again?" 

"Because-" He pauses, thinking through his words carefully. 

"Because..." James prompts, with a smug grin on his face. He knows he's got Christopher on his hook if he plays his cards right. 

Confusion marrs the blonde's pretty face as his brows draw closer together, pink lips pouty. 

"Well I... I remember Ireland. I don't know why. But I think I had family there." 

"You _think_ so?" 

A strangled sound escapes his throat and he walks away from James distractedly, hands in his hair, tugging the blonde strands tight. 

"Hey, you alright pal?" 

Christopher turns away, his brain working overtime trying to logic his way out of this on-coming headache. James was wrong, wasn't he? An awful trickster of a man who thought he could manipulate his way into... what? What exactly was James's goal here? There was no gain for him, surely, because Christopher would be the only beneficiary. Then again, James _did_ say that both he and Tony were hired recruiters. They must've been paid handsomely to bring Steven home. 

He rounds on James, eyes shadowed. 

"Who are they? And how do they even know that Steve's alive?" 

James pauses for a second, actually looking dumbfounded. He rubs idly at the stubble on his jaw and stares at Christopher with steel blue eyes. 

"They've got their own sources. The family is as tight-knit as ever and after what happened back in 01, they kept tabs on everyone back here."

"Back here? Well, where are they now?" 

James sighs, berating himself for not coming up with a better plan. But he couldn't go back and tell Tony that he'd failed to convince Christopher that he was Steven. His pride wouldn't allow it and neither would his stubbornness. 

"They're in Russia. They've got business there, apparently." 

Christopher looks affronted. "Russia? Why would they be in Russia?" 

James's irritation kicks up a notch. "Look, I don't know why they live there I just know that they do. The point is, they've been searching for you for so long, it's practically torture not going. And besides, you don't know much about your past, and you have no idea if your real family is in Ireland or not. But Russia is a sure shot, at least you've got a chance." 

He doesn't wait for the blonde to respond to him or even argue about it further. He swiftly turns tail and stalks out of the room, taking his time as he stomps down the stairs purposely. It was the oldest trick in his book, offering a commodity on a piece of string and then pulling it back just enough to convince the target audience that it was actually what they wanted in the first place. Christopher didn't have much prospects save for Ireland and he wasn't even sure about what he'd do if he actually made it there. James had offered him a surefire way of finding out. If Russia didn't work out, well then, he'd be more certain of Ireland. It was simple mathematics, with a little bit of cunning. 

He's halfway past the large ballroom before he hears a patter of panicked footsteps and a desperate, "Wait!" 

But he keeps on walking just to add to the tension, a smug grin on his face. 

"James! Wait-" 

Another step... and...

"Stop!" 

He pauses, schooling his expression to be that of nonchalance and slight boredom. Christopher comes hastening down the stairs nearly tripping over himself, cheeks reddened from exertion. 

"James stop- oh..." He barely stops himself from crashing into the taller brunette, hands reaching out to brace himself on that broad chest. 

James shoots him an unimpressed look and glances down at his hands clutching his chest, eyes glinting mischievously. Big blue eyes widen even more at that and Christopher quickly pulls his hands away, blushing profusely as he stares at the ground, clearing his throat. 

"Um, I'm sorry... uh, I just meant..." 

"Yes?" James drawls with a sleazy grin. 

"If I don't remember who I am then who's to say I'm not some long lost son of the great Joseph Rogers?" 

"Yeah, uh-huh. Go on." 

"And if I'm not Steven Rogers then I'm sure the family will certainly notice and it's all an honest mistake." 

James nods, his arms folded proudly. "Sounds plausible."

"And then, I can cross that theory off the list and be on my way to Ireland within the week." 

"Yes."

"But... how would I even get to Ireland from Russia? I've never even left the orphanage as much as I should have, could you imagine how scary it would be to be in a completely different country?" 

James grabs him by the shoulders firmly and steers them both out through the back door where he'd first entered. 

"Don't you worry, if it doesn't work out, Tony and I will see to it that you're on the next ship to Ireland. Or train, however they do it over there." 

Christopher turns to him and smiles nervously. 

"Are you sure?" 

James's breath catches in his throat for a moment when he looks into those never-ending blue eyes. The blonde lad is looking at him with so much nervousness and trust, as if he was some great king of some sort. He clears his throat quickly and passes Christopher down the beaten path. 

"Yes of course. I'm certain as certain can be. We'll prepare for our journey to the port tomorrow. As for tonight, try getting some sleep." 

Christopher nods excitedly, catching up with him hastily. 

"Of course. This is so exciting. I've never been on a ship before." James just smiles as they return to the rickety apartment. 

_If Christopher could read minds, he'd know that James had never been on a ship before either._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment on what you think of this concept and whether you're a fan of Anastasia or a fan of Stucky lol


	4. Train Ride Fancies and Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christopher learns more about the men he's traveling with. Tony is a remarkably perceptive man and James... well, James is a piece of work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love for this story.

Train Ride Fancies and Conversations 

The next morning goes by quickly, like salt dissolving in water. 

Christopher awakens at least an hour early, unable to restrain his excitement and nervousness at the prospect of being at sea. He's got his trunk packed and his best suit on, a little worn but still fancy. It's a beautifully tailored three-piece suit made of light gray tweed and black accents. It's nothing as fancy as what the city's wealthy businessmen wore but it's decent enough. Maria had gotten it for him when he turned seventeen and it still fit! He exits his room to meet with James and Tony, trench coat folded in the crook of his elbow and his paper-boy hat in hand while his other hand is occupied with the handle of his wheeled trunk. 

"Hey there!" He announces himself with a cheerful little wave. 

"Well it's about darn time you sh-" James begins impatiently before his words become stuck in his throat, eyes wide as he takes in the blonde. 

He's all gussied up in a neat three-piece suit made of gray tweed that fits his slim body to perfection. The light gray of the suit brings out the bright blue of his eyes, making him look more alluring than he should. His blonde hair is fixed with a sweet scented pomade, parted to the side like a proper gentleman and shiny. He looks _expensive_ to say the least. Even Tony's rendered dumbstruck as he stares at the young lad. 

Christopher's smile drops as he notices their blatant staring and slides a hand down his suit defensively. 

"Does it really look that bad?" He mutters, cheeks burning with embarrassment. 

Tony chuckles then, clapping James on the back firmly. 

"Goodness no, lad. You're perfectly fine. We just aren't used to people with a decent fashion sense around us, eh James?" 

James for his part seems to have trouble closing his mouth. He shakes his head and makes a screwed up face, trying to deflect his surprise. 

"A bit over-dressed if you ask me. And your shoes don't quite match." He comments curtly before stalking out the door. 

"We must leave now or we'll never catch the train." 

Tony gives Christopher a dramatic shrug as if to say, _'I don't know what his problem is'_ before following the man out the door. 

Christopher follows, his mood soured and a bit disheartened at James's ill-mannered reaction. 

***

They make it to the train station just in time, boarding and quickly finding their compartment. Christopher is struggling to fit his trunk into the overhead storage hold when a hand reaches out to help him. 

He turns to thank Tony who'd been in the compartment not three seconds ago but sees James. The vote of gratitude halts on his lips and instead he frowns in annoyance. 

"I'm perfectly able to stow my own baggage, Mr Barnes." He states sharply, purposely looking away from the man. 

James shrugs, still helping him anyway. "I must admit it was entertaining to watch your struggle at first but then it became quite bothersome and boring. And besides, you were blocking my view of the city." 

Christopher sighs heavily as he closes the door to the storage space shut and plops down onto his seat, exhausted. 

"You are not a pleasant man I take it? Look, it's a long ride to the port and your rudeness must surely have an end." 

"No it does not, I'm afraid." Tony interjects, amused as he enters their compartment again. He's holding on to his coat quite protectively and it quickly becomes obvious that he's concealing an object of some sort. 

"What have you got there Mr Stark?" Christopher inquires curiously. 

Tony grins at both of them before pulling out and brandishing a significantly large bottle of liquid. 

"Voilà! I present to you, a nice bottle of brandy." 

James eyes light up and he reaches out for it. "Give it here!" 

Tony quickly pulls it out of reach from him as Christopher rolls his eyes, unimpressed. 

"Where did you get that?" 

Tony holds out the bottle for him. "Have a drink lad!"

He offers the man a tired but polite smile. "Thank you but I don't partake in the consumption of alcohol." 

James eyes him dirtily, his nose screwed up right that he almost looks disgusted. 

"You don't drink." He deadpans, as Tony pours some into a glass. 

Christopher glares at him before turning to look through the window. "I do not." 

James thankfully decides not to push him on it and instead joins Tony's little part of debauchery. The men drink the cherry brandy like water, chuckling like devils getting their fill. Christopher simply looks on with a detached expression, wondering why men drank alcohol in the first place. The first time he'd had it, was when he was sixteen and some of the older orphans had snuck a bottle of whiskey from Mr Gardener. They'd forced him to drink it as some kind of initiation since he'd joined their sleeping quarters when he was deemed old enough to. It had tasted bitter and burned as it slid down his throat. They'd laughed at him of course, but he never once felt the need to drink such a vile liquid again. 

The men seem to quiet down as the bright evening sky slowly transitions into night. The stars are strewn haphazardly about a rich indigo backdrop, twinkling prettily back at the earth. The city seems less hectic at night, quiet and peaceful as if everyone and everything had gone to sleep. Christopher thinks about the orphanage with abstract interest, wondering if the boys in there even _knew_ just how much they were missing out on. It brings an unwanted tear to his eye, thinking about all the years he'd grown up never knowing who he truly was. And who his parents really were. He thinks of this quest that they're on and wonders if there is some truth to the speculation. Wonders if he might actually be the Rogers boy. And if he weren't, where would that leave him? _Who would he be, other than Christopher Robin, the orphan from New York?_

"Why d'you always look so sad dear?" Tony suddenly asks, startling the blonde who quickly glances at him. The man is slumped in his seat but fully conscious, hazel eyes locked onto the younger man. The bottle of brandy is on the floor, emptied of its temporary contents. 

Christopher shrugs in reply, looking out of the window again. 

"I'm not quite sure what you mean." 

Tony snorts loudly before sitting up properly, shoving James to lean on the window of the train. Christopher is glad he's seated opposite both men. The brunette is out cold, slumped in himself, his long hair loose and falling over his face. 

"I'm not quite sure what I mean either. But every time I look into your eyes, I see melancholy there. Like a kicked pup, out in the streets sort." Tony clarifies unhelpfully. 

Christopher huffs at that, amused. "I don't make it my business to look like a kicked pup but if I truly do appear that way, assume that I'm thinking of soup." 

Tony cackles out loud at that, disturbing the easy quiet that had filled the space. James still doesn't wake. 

"Why soup?" 

The blonde chuckles leaning his head back onto the cushioned headrest. 

"It's my favorite. Any kind of soup, cabbage, pea, plain old chicken soup. I love them all." 

Tony frowns, seriously thinking about this now. 

"Love them? Then why does it make you sad?" 

"Because I haven't had any since I left the orphanage. Miss Margaret made the best soups in the kitchen." 

Tony hums in understanding. "We're right opposites then. Because I hate soup with a passion." 

Christopher laughs at that. "You haven't had Miss Margaret's. What did the food taste like growing up in all those places?" 

The black-haired man frowns thoughtfully for a moment, folding his arms. 

"To tell you the honest truth, I don't even remember. It goes away after a while when you've been around the city like me. You're young, the memories are still with you." 

"Not the main memories I wish to recall but I don't ever want to forget." 

"You miss it, don't you?" 

"The orphanage?" 

"Mhm." 

"Yes. Yes of course. They were my family. The only family I've ever known in fact."

Tony nods, quiet for some time until Christopher asks, "Why is he like that?" 

Tony turns to look at his sleeping partner in crime, tilting his head slightly. 

"Like what?" 

Christopher shrugs. "Hot and cold? One minute he's rude and the next, he's almost friendly but then he's mean again." 

"He's had an interesting upbringing. Not to excuse his behaviour of course, but, James grew up on the streets." Tony reveals quietly, his tone not quite reflecting fondness but not harsh either. 

Christopher's blue eyes become those sad orbs again. "Oh." He mutters softly, at a loss for words. 

"His father and his brothers died when he was very young."

"And his mother?" 

"Dead too, I assume. Just, early enough for him not to remember her."

"Oh... what about the orphanage?" He's not very eloquent at the moment. 

Tony frowns. "Never got picked up. People would pass him in the streets; a dirty, disheveled little runt, not worth a penny. I found him when he was about fourteen, stealing from my good friend, Miss Potts' store. She felt sorry for him and decided to feed him and then she brought him to me. I was still renting out the place then. He was glad for a roof over his head and a warm bed. Worked in the blacksmith's lodge until Mr Kramer died last year."

"And now he's helping you rent the apartments?" 

Tony nods.

"So, how did you two end up becoming recruiters for the relatives of the Rogers?" 

The dark haired man pauses for a second but then blinks after a beat. _Great, now he had to add on to Barnes' white lie._

"We applied. Some men came from Russia with their propositions and we accepted."

Christopher chews on his lower lip. "Seems a bit of a gamble. Working for someone who's asking for the return of a boy that might not even be alive." 

Tony looks out the window then, unable to detach himself from the lie that he was just spouting to the poor lad. He doesn't reply because... _what does one even say to that?_ Christopher seems content with his quiet reply, looking out the window again, melancholy back on his face like a second skin. The peaceful silence between them festers, settling them nicely as the train rumbles on. Tony looks to be asleep after a few minutes and Christopher can feel the haziness of unconsciousness hold him in a comforting sleep. 

Unbeknownst to them both, James had been awake the whole time, listening to their quiet conversation.

.....................

Christopher is startled awake at the sound of a, "hey" and a not-so-gentle prod to the shoulder. 

He bolts upright and scans his surroundings, noting that he was still train-bound. His heart was beating like a caged bird in his chest and he was sweaty and warm under his suit. He pulls at the collar of his dress shirt and undoes the button choking him there. James is sitting opposite him, wide awake and a great deal rumpled. His long brown hair is messy but actually looks good in a sultry way. Steve refuses to be enraptured by the man's good looks however and chooses to scowl instead. 

"Why did you wake me? We're not even close to port yet." 

James shrugs, chewing on a slice of apple. "You were making weird noises." 

The blonde glares at the man before shaking his head and looking out the window. He hears James sigh heavily and feels a small jolt of smug satisfaction. 

"Look," James says finally, "I think we got off on the wrong foot here."

"Well I think we did too. But I appreciate your apology." Christopher replies casually with an air of pride. James makes a stupid confused and sour face, almost choking on his apple slice. 

"Wait- apology? Who said anything about apology? I was just saying that-" 

Christopher holds up a hand. "Look, please don't say anything else okay? It's only going to upset me." 

James turns his nose up at Christopher's immature tactics. "Fine. I'll stop talking when you top talking." 

"Fine." The boy retorts. 

"Fine." 

_"Fine."_

After a short moment of silence, Christopher speaks again. 

"Are you going to miss it?" 

James narrows his eyes at him. "What, your talking?"

Christopher rolls his eyes impatiently. "No. This place, New Haven. _Your home."_

James face suddenly drops at that, wolfish blue eyes becoming distant as he stares out the window solemnly. 

"This was never my home." He mutters with a detached air. 

Christopher frowns thoughtfully, not quite sure what to say to that. He thought back to the night before, when Tony had revealed the hard life James had lived, being on the streets and scorned by the city folk. He puts that up against his considerably warmer upbringing in the orphanage and can instantly see the reason for James's rather glib attitude and bleak outlook on life. 

"Don't you want one though? A home?" He answers finally, the longing clear in his voice. Having a home and a family is all anyone wants... _right?_

James grunts, exasperated. "Ugh, what is it with you and homes?" 

The blonde looks insulted, getting up to leave as James stretches out a leg, blocking his path. "Well for one, it's something _everyone_ wants. And two, you just, ugh- y'know what, forget it!" He cries, exhausted from James's arrogance, trying to get past the man's troublesome leg. 

Tony enters the compartment at that point, a tray of food in hand and some papers in the other. 

"Oh thank God!" Christopher praises dramatically, pointing at James accusingly. 

"I'm so glad you're here Tony. Please remove him from my sight!" 

James rolls his eyes, grabbing a grape from the tray and popping it into his mouth. 

"He's just being over dramatic." 

Tony frowns at him. "What has he done now?" 

"Hey!" James gripes. 

"He's- he's just- ...ugh he's being James again!" Christopher grumbles stepping out of the compartment to catch a break. 

Tony sighs, shooting James a stern look before it dissolves into something weird and... knowing. James doesn't like when Tony gets that look on his face. It means he knows something that James didn't. 

He scoffs obnoxiously. "What? And don't tell me I was wrong. The orphan started it." 

"Don't call him that." Tony admonishes, fixing himself a sandwich. 

James shrugs. "Well he _is_ an orphan." 

"Yeah." 

"Yeah. And he's super annoying." 

"Really?" 

"Yes! Ugh, I can't stand him. It's almost sickening the way he's so desperate to- ...to..." He stops himself when he realizes that Tony's uncharacteristically quiet, letting him go off on a tangent instead of fighting back with his own logical argument. 

"You were saying?" Tony says simply before biting into his sandwich indulgently. 

James scoffs. "Okay, what's the deal?"

"Deal?" 

"Yeah, with you. What is this new behaviour of yours?"

"Behaviour?" Tony parrots almost mockingly. 

"Yeah. You're agreeing with me instead of arguing. Usually you always have some kind of input. But now, you're as silent as a shadow." 

"Really?" 

"Yeah really."

Tony hums, polishing off his sandwich before giving James his full attention. The brunette can almost seethe gears grinding in his head, like clockwork whenever he figured something out. 

"You're always rude to people, that's a given."

James glances to the side, confused but following along. "Okay... go on." 

"You're a riot James and when you get really into something, you become defensive about it and a little aggressive." 

"Aggressive?" 

"Maybe not the right word... what I'm trying to say is, when you're being really rude or defensive about something, it's usually because you really like it."

"Okay..."

Tony sighs tiredly, at his wits end. "I'm trying to say that opposites attract... or maybe, it's an unspoken attraction. Yes, that's better. An unspoken attraction." 

James nearly falls out of his seat.

"Attraction? Attraction! Now you've really lost it Anthony." 

"Have I?" The man muses with a jolly grin on his face. 

"I'm not attracted to that little- ... _that little punk!_ He's naive and annoying and ugh, who cares anyway?" 

Tony simply nods sagely, preparing another sandwich. Christopher returns, seemingly in a better mood, his hair wild and fluffy as if he'd been out on the rear of the train taking in the breeze. His cheeks were also bright pink and his eyes were dazzling with wonder. 

"Sandwich lad?" Tony offers the boy who hastily accepts it. 

"Thank you, Tony. Say, have you been to the rear? It's an amazing sight! And the cool breeze just wakes your head right up." 

"You were out on the rear? That's dangerous! You could have fallen off or something." James butts in, looking deeply concerned. 

Tony sees Christopher's brilliant smile die a little so he steps in before things could get uncomfortable. 

"I have been, lad. It's an incredible view I agree." 

The blonde nods, glaring at James before biting into his sandwich. Tony prepares another sandwich for James and hands it to him with a pointed look. 

"Best you eat up too lad, we're almost there." 

The whistling of the train fills the silence between the three for the next half hour, just before the train pulls into the station. 

_They've made it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it!


	5. The Runaway, the Street Rat and the Orphan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're finally on the ship, headed straight for Russia! Tony insists that James must learn to get along with Christopher for the plan to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, hope you enjoy this chapter. I added a little backstory for Tony because I wanted his character to have more depth as opposed to the story legit being mainly Christopher and James's development.

The Runaway, the Street Rat and the Orphan

_The ship is huge._

That's not an understatement. It really is massive, at least a mile away from the dock, connected by temporary bridges for passengers to board and cargo to be stowed. It rises out of the murky port water like some kind of giant monster, looking down at the little people trying their best to rush onto it. It almost looks like a scene out of Johnathan Swift's novel, _Gulliver's Travels._ Tiny six inch people attacking a massive giant. Clouds of steam drift across the port, commuters and port workers talking and yelling animatedly, adding to the noise. The cobblestones are wet underfoot, glistening in the brilliant sunlight overhead. There are gulls and dirty stray cats and dogs scampering about, in search of dead fish from the fishmongers. 

Christopher is amazed at the new sights and a bit revolted at all the smells around him. Burning oil, rotted meat, smoke and fresh paint.

"Fish and offal, offal and fish." Tony says, noticing the slightly green look on the boy's face. 

"It's disgusti-." He chokes, vomiting unexpectedly into an old fisherman's bucket that was discarded on the dirty ground. A woman in the queue gasps and steps back from him in utter disgust, pulling her children away. James gives her a look before patting him on the back. 

"Just a little food poisoning, Madam." Tony tells her apologetically, handing over his tickets to the ticket collector.

"Is he drunk?" The man questions sternly. 

Tony waves a hand casually, laughing off the presumption. "Oh, no. This one doesn't drink. He's just got a mild case of food poisoning. He'll be right as rain in a moment." 

"Of course." The collector replies albeit a bit suspiciously. He has a steward take their personal trunks up while they both help to gather Christopher and walk him into the vessel. 

"Well, it ain't a stateroom." 

"It's good enough." 

Their room isn't the richest or most expensive but it's clean and neat enough. James sets the sick boy down on one of the empty beds and quickly looks around for a bucket. He finds one in the built-in closet of the room and rushes to carry it to Christopher who looks as pale as a ghost. He looks like he's about to say "thank you" but the bile makes its way out of his mouth before the words do. He heaves violently into the bucket, tears slipping down the corners of his eyes, his face red from exertion. 

"Poor lad." Tony comments unhelpfully but his tone doesn't lack sympathy. 

"That was embarrassing." James comments, grinning at the glare Christopher sends his way. 

Tony rolls his eyes tiredly and shoos the brunette away, helping the boy out of his suffocating suit jacket and waist coat. 

"James, be a dear and bring me a wet cloth, won't you?" He requests with a hint of insistence in his tone. James rolls his eyes and shrugs. 

"Sure, Anthony." 

Tony chuckles softly as he leaves the room, winking at Christopher who smiles at him gratefully. 

"Had to get rid of him somehow." He jokes, removing the bucket as the boy's heaving stops. He's breathing hard, exhausted after throwing up his sandwich that he'd eaten earlier. His insides feel like jello and his stomach muscles quiver weakly. He unbuttons his white shirt, letting it hang from his body to keep him cool from the unnatural heat that had washed over him when he'd heaved into the bucket. He kicks off his shoes and then blinks up at Tony with watery, bloodshot eyes. His lashes are clumped up and wet with tears- a pitiful sight. 

"M'sorry..." He grunts out, voice rough and hoarse from being over-worked. 

Tony shakes his head insistently. "Don't be, lad. Ports are usually filthy and disgusting. Should've seen me on my first day at the Boston port. Almost threw myself into the water." 

Christopher chuckles weakly, scrubbing a hand over his sweaty face. His hair is soaked in sweat as well, the blonde strands dark and damp. 

"Here you are, Monsieur." James sing-songs in a fake French accent, obviously teasing Tony who simply rolls his eyes and snatches the wet cloth from him. He pauses at the sight of the boy's pale chest, out in the open for anyone to oogle. The glimpse is enough to distract him for a hot minute until Tony speaks again. 

"Don't forget the bucket James." He calls as the man hastily turns on his heels. The brunette makes a disgusted face and eyes the bucket full of bile nervously. 

"That too?! C'mon Tony he's a big boy, I'm sure he can-" 

Tony holds up a hand. "Make yourself useful James. Or you can come over here and take care of him." 

James scoffs and stalks up to the bucket, snatching it up and making a show of holding it far from his body. 

"I'll just make myself useful somewhere else. _You're welcome._ " He sneers at Christopher, stomping out of the room just as quickly as he'd arrived, muttering to himself. 

The blonde sighs, eyes following the shadow of the man until it disappears from view. Tony claps him on the shoulder and snorts.

"Don't worry about him, lad. C'mon, lie back and I'll put this on your forehead. It'll keep you cool and bridge the nausea. I've realized that the cooler you are, the less upset you feel." 

Christopher hums in response, collapsing weakly into the pillows. He didn't have the heart to tell Tony that his notion was slightly unfounded. The coolness might've helped his nausea, but he was still upset. 

Instead, he thanks the man genuinely before knocking out cold. 

...................

_The Next Morning._

"I don't understand. Must you be so crass all the time?"

"Oh come on Tony! You had me clean up his sick like I was some kind of errand boy!" James complains as he paces the deck of the _SS City of New York_ ocean liner. Tony sits on a wooden bench, calmly looking over his papers, his thin silver spectacles perched atop the edge of his nose. He looks exquisite in his black trousers, white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows showing off his muscled arms. His dark hair is peppered with a few silver strands, making him appear little older than he actually is. A few high society women pass by and giggle at him flirtatiously. He winks at them and then returns to his papers. 

"And if he could've, he _would've_ cleaned up for himself. He isn't as bad as you make him out to be James. I just wish you'd keep your disgust to yourself sometimes. We _do_ need him for this plan of yours to work you know." 

James looks positively affronted, jerking back in slight surprise. 

"He doesn't _disgust_ me." 

Tony's guffaw catches him offguard. "Really? Are you sure? Because I'm quite certain that every single interaction you've had with him has been marked by particular disdain and a terrible attitude." 

James scoffs and paces again. His forehead is crinkled and his eyes are hooded, mouth drawn up in a tight line. He scratches at the peach fuzz on his jaw, thoughts weighing heavy on his mind. He grumbles to himself idly, frustrated with a million things and nothing at once. He's pretty sure he doesn't disdain Christopher. The young man had showed up on their doorstep with nothing but his trunk, his wit and a _disarming_ smile and had proven his merit instantly. If he were truly being honest with himself, James would've admitted that there really was nothing about the blonde beaut that made him mad. 

Nothing but the fact that he was in all honesty too pretty and brilliant for his own good. 

_Who the hell did he think he was? Rogers heir or not, he had no business being that charming!_

"For goodness sake, quit your pacing! It's making _me_ nauseous." Tony cries out finally, snatching the spectacles from its perch on his nose. 

James pauses and grunts, annoyed as he takes up residence on the space next to Tony on the edge of the bench. He frowns at the papers sprawled out between them and selects one to scan through. It's got the layout of a property of some sort. 

"What is this?" 

Tony snatches the paper out of his hands and stashes it with the rest. He then stuffs them into a leathered folder and tucks the folder into his beige satchel.

"It's my future estate." He states firmly, slinging the satchel around his shoulders. 

James huffs indignantly. "You keep going on and on about this imaginary estate-"

"It's not imaginary." Tony argues, looking over and waving to one of the many wives of the rich dignitaries presently in the cigar room of the ship's A deck. The red-head blushes and giggles shyly with the rest of her no doubt rich friends. 

"Then why didn't you take up the inheritance? Why stay here and struggle and live like a pauper instead of claiming what's yours and living comfortably?" James pushes, the frustration clear in his voice. He's been asking- no, _begging_ Tony for the answer to that question for years. The man had always brushed it off and had never given him a straight answer. 

But he wanted an answer now. 

"Tell me." 

Tony sighs heavily, rising up from his seat to lean up against the deck railings and watch out into the ocean. It's incredibly blue... bluer than the sky. There are white seagulls in the sky, making weird noises and circling over the ship. No clouds are in the sky making it look like an empty, blue void. The sun is beating down on the deck, bright and _hot._ The sound of James's footsteps are steady and calm as he joins Tony at the railing. His brunette hair shines rich, dark golden in the sun, eyes clearer than the blue of the sky. Tony notices the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and feels his heart sink a bit. He never realized how much older James appeared, when in fact he was only twenty-two. 

"My father and I didn't have the best of relationships." He admits quietly, ignoring the way James looks over at him in utter shock. 

"I thought you said you were orphaned." 

Tony nods. "I lied. My father... he disapproved of me. Never really spent time with me. He was always searching for the next win... _the next big thing_. Too busy looking for the next diamond deal to realize that his family was _falling apart behind him._ "

James looks on at the ocean silently, blue eyes a bit misty but serious. 

Tony continues. 

"My mother ended up an addict, trying to cope with her own loneliness with morphine... and the rumours that my Dad had another- had a mistress. She tried her best with me but I was too hard on her. Expected too much when she was just doing the best she could with the hand she'd been dealt. She died in 1907, and that's when I left. Wrote a scathing letter to my Dad, packed up my suitcase and left in the night. I took a train and hitched rides until I reached this little place in New Haven... I went to three different orphanages but never stayed long. New York Orphanage was my longest. I've never looked back since." 

The silence persists when his monologue ends, drifting to and fro between them like the dark waves beneath their feet. James looks away, possibly wiping furiously at a tear and swearing under his breath. 

"Why didn't you tell me? And why do you want to go back now, after _eight_ years of never looking back?" He demands, the emotion clear in his voice. 

Tony sighs, bending his head as if in prayer. 

"A telegraph was sent to me at the beginning of the year. My- ...Howard's sick. Bedridden and they need me there." 

James gasps, gripping Tony by the shoulder. "Then why- wh- what are you doing here?!" 

Tony smiles, the tears glistening in his eyes but never falling. 

"I'm uncertain. I don't think I could- ...I don't think I could see him like that. I was hoping that this adventure with you would distract me. I can't go back to that place when _she's_ not there." 

James heart breaks and he quickly wraps Tony in a hug before the man could see the tears fall from his eyes. He couldn't explain the sudden well of emotions inside of him at the moment but Tony was like the big brother he never had. And seeing him in this much pain wounded some deeper part of himself he'd never explored before. A part of himself that had lain dormant for years. 

"Whatever you decide." He tells the man, pretending that the sniffles and subtle movements wracking against his body aren't in fact Tony sobbing into his shoulder. 

"I never thought families could be that bad." He says after they'd broken apart and resumed their seats on the bench. 

Tony snorts and tosses his head back with a laugh that probably feels liberating now. 

"Take it as a lesson lad. Families are tough. Parents are... difficult. But not all of them."

"No?" 

"No. Sometimes when families fight... it just means that they care about you. But I want you to know that it's not easy, being a part of a family. Being an orphan isn't fair to any child and I know how hard it must've been for you and... even for Christopher." 

James frowns at that, thinking of the pretty blonde. 

"You think he'll be crushed if the connection in Russia isn't his family." He says matter of factly. It's a conclusion, not a question. 

Tony nods. " _When_ he finds out." 

James grunts. "I promised him a ticket to Ireland Tony. I told him that if things didn't work out, I'd put him on the first train to Ireland and he could forget about us." 

"But you're certain that he may pass for the Rogers boy." Tony clarifies. 

James nods. "He has the face. And the eyes. And he's the perfect age Tony. He's the closest things we've ever gotten to the real Steve Rogers and I think even they'd believe it. They're getting desperate, I heard a rumour before we boarded the ship that they'd raised the bounty. _Again."_

Tony raises a brow, stroking his beard. "That's a lot of money." 

James nods earnestly. "It is."

"Then we must do our best to prepare him for the questions he might have to answer. And the way they might expect him to act to prove that he's the real Steve Rogers." 

James grins at that. "You sound like you've got a plan." 

Tony smirks right back at him. "You know I've always got a plan for everything. From now on, we refer to him as nothing but Steven. He's the last remaining heir to a million-dollar company so we'll treat him like royalty. We'll make them believe it!" 

"And the orphanage story?" 

Tony thinks for a moment. "I don't think they'd see a problem with him being an orphan. That just adds more substance to the story." 

"True." 

Tony holds up a hand, halting James in his thoughts. 

"There's one more thing." 

"What?" 

"You'll need to be nicer to him. Or else he'd never truly become Steve Rogers."

James snorts and gestures dismissively with his hand. 

"If I can learn to be a gentleman, then he can learn to be Steve ' _heir-to-the-throne_ ' Rogers in no time." 

......................

Christopher wakes up the next morning, feeling like a crashed car and a piece of tenderized meat all at the same time. 

The cabin is empty, leaving him to assume that his cohorts were on the deck already taking in the wonderful sights. He makes it to the bathroom quarters in one piece, and proceeds take probably one of the longest and coldest showers in his life. His hair is a fluffy mess by the time it dries and he's got on an old pair of light brown trousers and a light blue under shirt that fits him loosely, tucked into his waistband that's held by worn suspenders. 

The sun nearly blinds him when he climbs the stairs and reaches the main deck. It's bright and extremely hot and he can feel the burn on his skin. He squeezes his eyes shut for a minute or two, standing there mesmerized. The deck is shiny and newly waxed, little kids running about with wooden soldiers and dolls, bouncy balls and paper planes. Their parents are hurrying after them, concern all over their faces. He nods with an earnest smile at a young lady that passes him, her smile a little less than friendly. More... desperately flirtatious. He blushes and moves right along, not knowing how to respond to that kind of attention. 

He doesn't see Tony or James but those concerns suddenly become secondary to him at the sight of the ship's bow. Unable to contain his excitement and curiosity, he dashes up to it, climbing the iron rungs with some difficulty and holding on tight to the metal post there. It's a bit slippery so he holds on tightly. The sight is breathtaking, he realizes with an overwhelming feeling of wonder. The water is _blue,_ deep and mysterious. The waves crash and splash around the ship, cutting through the water like a really huge knife. The horizon practically _glows_ at him, a vast expanse of endless sky and sea. He gasps as seagulls glide past him, settling on the water's surface like floats. 

It's _incredible- !_

"Hey!"

 _"Ah!"_

He shrieks, startled at the shout and slips from his perch, hanging on for dear life as his feet miss the spaced out rungs on the bow. 

"Oh for heaven's sake James!" Tony complains frustratedly, head in his hands as James nearly has a heart attack. 

"Jesus Christ hold on! I'll come get you!" He calls to the blonde who is dangling at least eight feet above the deck's surface.

"I can get down by myself!" Christopher insists stubbornly despite the fact that his hands are slipping dangerously from the slippery metal bars. 

James quickly moves to scale the bow while Tony remains on the floor of the deck pacing and muttering to himself.

_"You yelled at him, why would you yell at him? Why would you yell at someone who's practically standing on the edge of a ship? Why? I don't even know why I try-"_

James ignores Tony and keeps climbing until he reaches the blonde. There's a crowd of onlookers gathering on the deck, from the lower class to the rich, high society folk. Christopher glares at him with wide, frightened eyes, breathing hard as if he were hyperventilating. 

"Are you crazy?! You're crazy! Oh my God you- ...you're insane!" He cries as James wraps a hand around his waist, holding him firmly. 

"Let go-"

"Quit squirmin' ya punk!" James growls, pulling the boy's body tightly against his front. He gasps, eyes furious as James has the audacity to wink at him. 

"C'mon, I've got you. You gotta let go." He orders the blonde, as he frantically looks around at all the people looking at them and at the distance of the deck from where they're perched on the bow. 

Christopher screws his face up at the insane brunette. "What- what are you _crazy_? I can't let go, I'll fall!" 

James rolls his eyes, terribly tempted to bang his own head against the metal. 

"Not completely you idiot! One by one so that I can get us down together." 

Christopher looks insulted but he does it anyway, _begrudgingly._

James takes his time, muscled arm tight around Christopher's body. The blonde tries his best not to think about their close proximity but then James grunts hard and the sound vibrates against his chest and the hairs on the back of his neck _raise._ He feels the eyes of everyone on them and quickly turns away, inadvertently pressing his nose into James's neck, the man's stubble brushing sharply against his smooth jaw. James growls again and the blonde whimpers as his hand almost slips from its grip. 

"I've got you." James mutters softly, breath tickling Christopher's ear. 

He only realizes that they're on the ground when applause erupts from all around them and his feet don't feel so wobbly anymore. Tony pats his shoulder and asks him if he's alright, while James receives praises. He mumbles an _"I'm fine"_ to Tony but isn't sure if the man heard it. He just feels humiliated and stupid and his face is hot with embarrassment so he does the only logical thing and rushes below deck to his room, hot tears trailing down his cheeks. 

...................

James finds him in the corner of their cabin, sat on the floor where the light shines the brightest with a sketch pad and lead pencil in hand. He's furiously shading at the page, pencil moving back and forth in quick motions. He can tell by his body language that the boy is intentionally ignoring his presence and he can hazard a guess as to why. So instead, he silently walks over and sits next to him, trying to peer into the page. He makes out the image of a monkey... _the dancing kind._ It's got a top hat on and is balancing on a unicycle. 

He frowns. "A dancing monkey... is that what you feel like?" 

The pencil halts in its movements, Christopher's head remaining where it was. He doesn't look up at the brunette, doesn't utter a single word or response and instead continues shading the wheel of the unicycle a little darker to add depth and dimension. 

James sighs, running a hand over his face idly.

"Look, I'm sorry about... about what I did. I didn't mean to scare you like that..."

"I wasn't scared I was _humiliated_." The blonde mutters testily, his tone sharp and angry. _Definitely angry._

James took it in stride, knowing that he was to blame for that matter. He genuinely felt bad about the whole debacle and hated how he'd acted towards the boy. Maybe Tony was actually right and there was some unspoken thing between them. _Not attraction,_ but there definitely was a connection there. He just couldn't figure it out and it made him mad. James didn't do well with uncertainty or vulnerability and the way Christopher made him feel, ticked off _all_ those boxes. 

"I shouldn't have yelled at you. I just- ..." He pauses, careful with his thoughts-to-speech function for fear of revealing too much to both himself and Christopher. 

Blue eyes consider him silently, glassy with unshed tears but still fever bright. "You just what?" 

James scoffs quietly and looks away, shaking his head as if he were annoyed or angry at the boy's question. 

"Don't bother." Christopher mumbles sadly, going back to his drawing. 

James panics and smacks his own forehead hard. 

"I was paralyzed okay! I saw you up on the bow and- ...you could've slipped and fell..." 

"Yeah well you took care of that part." Christopher mutters sarcastically. James grunts, noncommittal and the blonde boy frowns hard at him. 

"You need to be more careful." 

"Why d'you care anyway?" Christopher demands, pretending his focus is on his drawing. He's shading a bit outside the lines now but James doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy brooding and looking away and glaring at the floor instead. 

"I don't." He finally states, teeth gritted, his jaw tight. 

That makes the blonde look up, brows furrowing slightly, a certain kind of pain in his eyes. It's not deep, but yet, he still doesn't know why he just feels utterly rejected and devastated. Being an orphan gave him a temporary family and _of course_ he could never compare to what James went through on the harsh and cold streets of New Haven. But that didn't mean that he still couldn't hurt from outright rejection. 

"Then you should've just let me fall from the bow." He hisses spitefully, ripping his drawing out of his sketch pad and crumpling it up into a little ball. James stares at him hard before reaching over and grabbing his hand. The blonde gasps and blinks up at him, still angry but looking more scared than anything. 

_"No."_ The brunette insists, his voice nothing but a hoarse growl. He reminds Christopher of a wild animal then, untamed and violent. 

"I would never have let you fall." 

He yanks his hands away and takes the drawing along with him. He tears it up angrily and tosses the torn pieces of paper all around them. 

"And you're not a dancing monkey either."

Christopher loses it at that. 

"Then _why_ go out of your way to humiliate me? _Why_ make me feel like I'm some kind of _burden_ to you when you wanted to bring me along in the first place?!" 

James sighs tiredly and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

"You're not a burden. I'm just a sorry son of a bitch who just messes up every time." 

Christopher seems to simmer down at that and he takes a deep breath, observing the brunette with sad eyes. He sees a much older version of James sitting before him, hunched in on himself with his head down and his breathing slow. He's twenty-two if Christopher remembered correctly, not much older than himself. He thinks about a fourteen year old James, living on the streets of New Haven, eating out of the garbage cans and stealing rotten fruit from market vendors. He imagines just how difficult it must have been, trying to find a place to rest in the night. Trying to stay warm when the winters raged through the town. 

And then he thinks of himself; eating three square meals a day, with a comfy bed to sleep in and a soft pillow made of feathers to rest his head. The thinks of the warmth Mary had blessed him with, looking after him as if he were her own. Maybe James had never had that. And maybe his life really was a morbid tragedy, year after year living in nothing but uncertainty and poverty, never knowing what's going to happen the next day. Or the next day after that. But that shouldn't have made him so cold and bitter, Christopher thinks. 

_It shouldn't have._

"I'm sorry that you had a rough start, I truly am. I just wish you'd think of me as an acquaintance of sort and not some bothersome juvenile on a charity cruise with you." He finally says, tone calm and non-confrontational. He's tired and his emotions are everywhere and nowhere at once. But he'd always been taught to be the calm whenever a storm rages. Mary had encouraged it but he'd always been inherently peaceful and soft-tempered. 

James sighs and slicks back his hair with a greasy hand. 

"I don't think you're a bothersome juvenile. And neither are you a charity case. I practically press-ganged you onto a ship to Russia." 

Christopher frowns. "Press-ganged?" 

James bites his tongue. 

_Fuck._

He recovers _mightily_ fast. 

"You know. I forced your hand. There's just no proper way to recruit the long lost son of a dead millionaire is there? He chuckles weakly, his lie in fractures. 

Luckily, the blonde lad breaks a sweet and genuine smile, his hair shining golden in the natural sunlight beaming in through the window. 

"No there is not." 

James holds out a hand, offering him an easier smile this time, his blue eyes clearer than before. 

"Truce?" 

Christopher matches his grin and shakes his hand firmly. 

"Truce. You are still an asshole though." 

"What? How?" 

"Because I almost fell from the bow! Scared the hell outta me." 

James grins. "I'll make it up to you, I promise." 

Christopher frowns suspiciously. "Will you now?"

"You may or may not get the chance to get back at me for the stunt I pulled at the bow. If Tony has any say in the matter." 

The blonde boy grins mischievously, blue eyes sparkling with an innocent glee, much like the younger counterpart of himself that he remembered nothing about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and drop a kudos if you liked ❤ Sam

**Author's Note:**

> More to come soon! Enjoy! Love, Sam.


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